Panzerfahren Chronicles
by jothesniper02
Summary: James Byrne is a regular student, with regular friends, at Woodchurch High School in the U.K., but when things take a turn for the worst, he must step up to the challenge; and prove to himself, his team, his school and his country what a true commander in the art of Panzerfahren and Kriegsfleiger is made off!
1. Chapter 1

**Panzerfahren Chronicles**

 **Chapter One: Well, where to begin…**

"Panzerfahren. Kreigsfleiger. These two experimental sports devised in Germany have found to be nothing but successful in trials in the United States, The Soviet Union and The British Empire. Because of these results, they are to become an official worldwide sport, parts of our culture, and teach the teenagers to be well mannered. And for mostof all, to be prepared for anything life shall throw at them." – Induction of Panzerfahren and Kreigsfleiger, United Nations Summit, 1948.

* * *

 **Monday, September 2nd, 2016.**

 **Prenton, Birkenhead, England.**

 **07:00 AM**

 _BEEP, BEEP, BEEP, BEEP, BE- THWACK_

The ever-annoying sound of the alarm was swiftly silenced by the swing of a lucky hand. It was the day every student in the United Kingdom knew and dreaded. Monday; back to school week. This was the week which seemed to last for years unending. It signaled the end of a summer which gave everyone of them the freedom they needed. But now, that freedom was swiftly stolen away from them, as schools opened their doors for the first time in the curriculum year.

If it couldn't get worse, there were due dates for the homework set over the holiday. Great.

The teenager looked up from the pillow which he had instinctively burrowed his head in at the sound of the alarm. Either he was going to get himself up, or his mum would have to do it; and if his mum did it, he wouldn't hear the end of it for the whole day. With a groan of discomfort, he threw the covers off himself, expecting the cold air to launch itself at him, but instead was met with a room which was at a surprisingly warm temperature for the year. It was the end of summer in Britain after all.

His dark brown hair was a scruffy mess upon his head, nothing a harsh brush wouldn't sort out. His eyes were struggling to keep open, the temptation of sleep was enormous, as a real task to resist. His blazer and school uniform were hanging patiently on the door of his wardrobe. On the left side of his black blazer, was the badge of the school he belonged to. It was in the rough shape of a shield, in the middle of which was a church, with two acorns beside it and a leaf above. Underneath the shield was the name of the school. _Woodchurch High School._

Getting the uniform on was no big deal, every year wore the same kit minus Year Eleven. They had a different design of tie than the years below. Looked a lot better too. Once it was on, and the teen had grabbed something to eat, he made his way to pick up his bag, and to leave for the long trek toward school. The school, in an effort to make the students an example of how 'smart' they were, had standardised on one design of bag; much to the dismay of the parents of the students. On his bag, was the badge of the school and his name; James Byrne.

James wasn't that good of a student, with most of his subjects expecting a C from his GCSE results in the following year; except Panzerfahren. In the years that James had been at Woodchurch, he'd climbed through the ranks in the subject, all while still using the same tank since Year 7. A Sherman Tank; _Good Luck_. The tank was old, very old. Instead of being a replica, like the majority of the others in Panzerfahren, it was an original. It had seen them through the best and worst parts of their career. Most of the other tanks in the school's team were originals as well, but _Good Luck_ was the oldest by far, having been built in 1943.

Sooner than James realised it was time to go. He shouted goodbye to his mum, who was busying herself with getting herself ready for work, and walked out the front door, closing it behind him.

Outside, the air was cool. The sun shone bright above the town, and the clouds looked white as a sheet. It almost didn't feel like anything was going on today; alas, there was. The streets down where James lived were seemingly abandoned, only the occasional cat and car going past were the only company he had. Soon, he came to the main road. It was a vast contrast to the empty streets where James lived. It seemed that every second, a bus went past, or a lorry. On the pavement approaching James, were two lads of a similar age to him. Both wore the same uniform as James, and when they saw him, they smiled.

"Mornin' James." Said one, with a subtle nod.

"Morning Kieran, how're things Josh?" Replied James, asking a question to the lad beside Kieran

"C-could be worse." He replied.

Kieran and Josh had been mates with James ever since primary school. They'd all been close since year 3, when they all played around on the yard at school. Each one of them had stuck together, each asking to be put together in year 7, and assigned together to _Good Luck_. There was no separating them.

As James tagged along with them, and as they walked down the street they broke into conversation. Kieran went into specific detail about the new Fifa game, while James kept insisting it was nothing more than the same game as the last fifteen or so. Josh brought up the new Battlefield game, which all three of them enjoyed talking about. They all had agreed that the 'landships' were the most unfair advantage to one side since Tigers against Churchills. The conversation lasted so long that by the end of it, they had arrived at school.

Outside was a flurry of students, some leaving their cars, some leaving buses, and some walked in groups. The lone M3 Stuart gate guard stood still as ever, watching over the new influx of students at the school. Beside the old tank, was the Headteacher. She was a stubborn woman, with the features of a grandmother. Some of the school's veterans joked that if there was going to be a new horror film out, she should be cast as the monster. Not many students liked her.

The three boys kept their heads down, they didn't want to be brought over to the head and screamed at merely because their ties were a stripe too short.

Soon, after passing the headteacher at the main entrance to the school grounds, they passed through reception and into the main concourse of the school. It was filled with life, with students and teachers running to and fro. Its temperature was like an oven in comparison to outside, but it wasn't unwelcome. Of all things, it was what the trio looked forward to the most about the school.

Almost as soon as they entered the concourse, a lad ran up to the three. He was at barely their height. At a glance, James thought it would've been an overexcited year 7, but as James turned his head to face the person coming towards them he recognised who it was.

"James? You're needed in the meeting room at Lunch break. There's a meeting for the commanders and pilots." He said.

James was confused. Why have a meeting this early in the year? It only just started up again, and most people wouldn't be in, especially because of the day.

"Alright, cheers Leon." James replied. Albeit, he didn't want to go to the meeting, he had to. He was a commander of a tank.

* * *

 **12:45 PM - Lunch Break**

Later that day, once he'd collected his lunch from the canteen, James made his way to the meeting room. The room, which was on the second floor of the school and in the administrative district, was where the commanders and pilots of the school's Panzerfahren and Kreigsfleiger teams would come for meetings. It had a large rectangular table in the centre, with windows dotted on the right-hand side. Around the walls, were pictures of teams of yesteryear. It took a while to get there from the canteen, due to the sheer volume of people in there it was a near impossible task to get out, but James eventually did.

"Ah, Sergeant Byrne. How glad of you to join us." Said the person sitting at the far end of the table.

"If I'm told to attend a meeting by the team's commander, I answer the call." Replied James. As much as he didn't want to attend the meeting or didn't like the person sat at the other end of the desk, he still was formal in his response. "Now Casey, why are we here?"

Casey adjusted himself in his seat. "We're here to discuss what went wrong last year." He said. A Tank Commander snorted.

"I'll say, we got our asses handed to us on a silver platter. Our aircraft were all down minus Alex's Hurricane, and what are .303 Brownings gonna do against Tiger tanks?"

"Nothing could've stopped him Liam," James said, "it was only us and the flag tank left. And its 6 Pounder can't even scratch it."

"It's the ammunition." Said another commander. "The Armour Piercing disintegrates on hitting the targets, even solid shot couldn't get through the front of the Panzer IV we faced."

"Are you mad?" Interrupted another, "It's the guns. Our Firefly's armed with a Vickers 75mm gun. It's no where near as effective as it should be."

"It's none of those, it's the aircraft." Said Jessica, one of the pilots. "What do we have?" She asked rhetorically. "Hurricanes, Spitfire MK V's, and a P-51A. We've got much more but they're not flight worthy; engine trouble and no munitions."

"I was talking more about our tactics but those are good points." Said Casey. "The problems we have already are troubling. The question is, how are we gonna fix them? As far as I know, a new replica Rolls-Royce Merlin engine costs about £11,000. New munitions for all tanks about £25,000 and a 17-Pounder gun… about £180,000. Maybe more. We simply don't have the money at the current moment."

"We could try fundraising." James said. All eyes turned to him. "When I was in Cadets, occasionally, they did bag packs, sponsored runs and the like. Maybe we could get some of them on the go while we wait for government funding to get the amount we need."

"Good thinking Sergeant." Casey said. The room was in agreement. "Although we might need permission from staff, this could be the way we get in this year."

Interrupting the thoughts of everyone, was the distinctive two-tone chime of the school's tannoy system, signalling the end of lunch break and the resuming of lessons. The sound brought a feeling of dread, nobody wanted to go back to their classrooms. All in the room were about to leave until Casey remembered something.

"Oh yes, guys? Come back. I have something for you all." The crowd turned to face Casey.

"You are being re-issued your handguns as soon as you have filed the correct paperwork. That should be out in a weeks' time. Pilots; you'll find yours in your bail out kits, among other essentials, in your aircraft. Commanders; yours will be found in your tanks storage compartments. That is all."

James sighed out of relief, he missed the Webley revolver he'd held close since he was in year 9. Although it was for emergencies, and only paint ammunition was issued (restricting the gun to become a glorified paintball gun) it was still relaxing to know that it wasn't being took off him, yet. As he made his way to his fourth lesson of the day, English, he thought the day as nothing but awful. He'd been dragged back to school, attended a meeting filled with negative thoughts, and English was next. _'How wonderful'_ James thought to himself.

Little did he, or anyone else, know that this year would be the best one of his life, and put the school back on the map forever…


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two:

The First Practice & Tankfest

"Fire!"

 _KA-BOOM_

The breach of the 75mm gun rocked back inside the turret of _Good Luck._ The muzzle spat a bright flame as the High-Explosive shell was sent down range. A dull _thud_ sounded out as the round contacted the concrete target far down range. seconds later, the round exploded; sending chunks of rock flying into the sky.

"Fantastic shot Dan, keep it up." Said James, eyes still pressed up against the turret's periscope. The crew whooped and cheered at the first time hit on target, and their first 'kill' of the year.

"Gun up." Said George, the tank's loader as he slammed another High-Explosive shell into the breach of the gun.

"That won't be needed. We've gotta wait on Elise and Bravo Company." James replied, George sighed; all the effort of reloading the gun for nothing.

"Good shot Alpha leader. Give whatever's left of the target the what for with your machine guns while Bravo company are preparing." Said Casey over the radio.

"Roger that." Replied James, "Guys, get the safeties off those Emma Gee's, we're getting some more practice in." The crew all smiled, they loved their rare chances of having a go of the tank's machine guns outside of combat. They were rare for only one reason: The 1998 Internationals.

Before 1998, infantry could also compete in the tournaments. This was until a squad got slaughtered by machinegun fire from their opposition, who thought they were firing paint rounds at them. This saw to that all infantry in the games were banned and the only participants were allowed were in armoured vehicles and aircraft.

James opened the commander's hatch on _Good Luck's_ turret and climbed outside. There in front of him, was a .50 calibre M2 machine gun. He was looking forward to this.

James reached back inside the tank, grabbing the paint ammunition for the M2 and loading it into the heavy machine gun. He racked the slide and took aim.

"Open fire!" he shouted down the microphone. Within moments, the gunfire sounded out and the dashing lights of tracer rounds were being sent down range. Dust was being kicked up near the target, and the target itself was getting a new coat of bright red paint. It was perhaps the most satisfying thing James had done in a long time.

Soon, the munitions ran dry. The fun was over for now. Behind James, the low rumble of four Rolls-Royce Meteor engines rumbled. James looked, to find Elise and Bravo Company slowly making their way to the firing line. Elise was standing out of her hatch on her Cromwell Mk I tank, she had thick rimmed glasses and long blonde hair which was tied in a bun.

"What took you so long?" James shouted over the engines.

"Engine trouble," Elise shouted back, "you know how unreliable these old things are."

"Aye, we know. Not ever happened to us and _Good Luck_. Hahaha." James replied. Elise could only smile. There was no point in retaliating, the _Good Luck_ was the most reliable tank out of the whole batch of the originals. They really did get lucky with that one.

"Alpha Company, your operation is complete. Return to the tanksheds and come to the conference room." Casey said over the radio.

"Roger, Wilco. Out" James replied. "Sorry Elise, gotta go." Elise smiled.

"Good. Then we get some practice in."

James smiled in return, before jumping back into his commander's cupola. "Josh, make for the tanksheds. Put the machineguns back on safe and unload everything."

"Rog'." Said Josh. As he pulled the lever beside his left leg, the engine roared and the tank was turning around and making its way back to the sheds. George opened up the breach of the 75 and carefully removed the shell and put it back in its storage rack. Now the tense bit was over, he got to work on the coaxial M1919.

A few moments later, the dull echoey sound of an aircraft filled the air. It wasn't very loud but was enough to be heard over the engine of _Good Luck._ It was getting louder, and louder, until James looked up. There, flying above him, were three aircraft; all with Woodchurch's Kreigsfleiger team's badge painted on the wings. In the lead, was a Supermarine Spitfire; the most powerful aircraft the team had; beside it, were two Hawker Hurricanes. All three were armed with, by the looks of it, several Anti-tank rockets slung under the wings. The radio sprang to life.

"This is Blue Leader, we are making our attack run on the targets. Standby." Jessica's voice sounded out over the radio. James' eyes were fixated on the flight of aircraft. They all dived after one another, with the Hurricanes going first. As they neared the targets, the rockets were fired.

 _Shoom….Shoom….KA-BOOM…_

The concrete targets exploded in a cloud of dust and smoke. All three-aircraft pulled out of their steep dived and levelled out, with the final Hurricane conducting a victory roll.

"This is Blue Leader calling Bravo Company. Confirm that we hit the targets. Over."

"Blue Leader, all targets destroyed. Great shot Jess." Elise said over the radio. By now the flight had turned around and were heading back to their place of origin; Hooton Park Aerodrome.

The Aerodrome had once been a fully-fledged RAF Station, but when it was closed in the 1960s, the powers that be purchased the aerodrome for Kreigsfleiger usage. Now, the squadrons of all the schools and cadet units on the Wirral had a place at Hooton Park.

"They're good, aint they?" George said, his eyes fixed on the three planes. Dan looked at him with a big smirk on his face.

"Mate, you're a fool for thinking they're the best. Just you wait until they go against Eton. Or hell, some of those German teams." Dan deadpanned. James looked at the two as they argued about how good Woodchurch's pilots were. Both of them had a point; Jess and blue flight were good, but they weren't as good as the best.

Soon, they had arrived at the tanksheds. The sheds were a red brick building, with several gates leading into several bays for the tanks. A few were sitting idle whilst the crews got together ammunition and fuel, a few more were sitting out in front of the sheds with their engines humming away as they waited for their turn to be called up the ranges. As Josh drove _Good Luck_ into its bay, James noticed a lad standing just after where the tank would stop. This lad meant nothing but bad news. Ben Davies was the biggest thorn in James' side since year 8. He'd always looked down on the crew of _Good Luck_ with the same looks as a member of some lordship's household would look down upon a commoner; with disgust and hatred. All of his school life, James had been kicked about by Ben, with him being a good two foot taller than him. James hated no one else more. If he could wish the foulest end for someone, it would be Ben.

"Ha! Look at this lads!" He shouted to his mates, "It's James Byrne and his little crew of mongs!" A distant sound of laughter erupted from far away in the shed. James tried his best to keep himself from returning the favour, but he couldn't hold it back.

"You're speaking to a Sergeant, Ben. Back off." James retaliated as he climbed out of the turret cupola.

"'You're speaking to a Sergeant…'" Ben mocked. "What are you gonna do about it? You're a bunch of mongs. Nothing more." By now, the rest of the crew were dismounting and were out of the tank, and James saw a chance to get even and he took it without thinking.

"Aye, and you're a grob in a fake coat, whose better at beating up little girls than commanding tanks," Snapped back James, referencing the apparently true rumours of Ben attacking younger girls, "Now, if you'll excuse me, I've an appointment with Casey." James began to walk away. He felt on edge, but somewhat satisfied. He'd just told the lad, whom had bullied him many times and thought himself as the leader of the word, to essentially get fucked. And it felt good.

"I aint finished with you Byrne!" Ben shouted, he began to move after James at an alarming rate. Before he knew it, he was less than a few feet away from James. He turned. He saw Ben and his life flashed before is eyes. Ben's taller height loomed over James and he was swinging a punch at his face. James ducked. Ben missed, and instead slammed his fist into the side of _Good Luck._ With a _crunch_ , Ben pulled his hand away from the side of the tank and screamed in pain. James stood there dumbfounded, and with a shit ass grin on his face. Ben's mates soon began to run toward their friend. If James' lot were gonna get out of there, now was the time.

"Let's go." Said Kieran, still looking at Ben's collapsed form on the floor.

"Couldn't agree more." Returned James. They ran over to the main building, agreeing on the way not to mention this to anyone until it was needed.

* * *

James knocked on the door to the meeting room. Within, Casey gave them permission to enter. James walked in the room, closely followed by the rest of the crew. They each took a seat while they waited for them debrief.

"Commander Byrne." Casey greeted, "Congratulations on the first time hit Dan, been at your studies I presume."

"No need, we've all gotten used to out tank. All of its kinks and silver linings and all." Dan replied. The rest of the crew silently agreed.

"Right, there really is no need to de-brief you on anything. However, there is one thing that has come to my attention." Casey said. He had the groups attention now. They all leaned in intently.

"As you know, there is an event every year to determine who faces who in the first round of this year's nationals." He started.

"Tankfest. Yeah, everyone knows it." James said, cutting in. Casey moved toward the windows, looking out at the tanksheds.

"This year, we need someone to attend as a representative of our school; a job for the year above us. However, the Headteacher has insisted that Year 11 are to stay as they are due to study."

"Bollocks." George said, "They've always let people go."

"Well this year its changed." Casey replied swiftly, cutting George off about what he was going to say next. "So, we need someone to go from our year. This is gonna be a first for the whole lot of us." The crew looked amongst each other, with devilish smiles upon their faces. This could be a chance for them to go to the biggest meetup and get to know the opposing teams beforehand. ' _Who knows?'_ James thought, _'might meet someone special…'_

"A vote will be cast in the weeks preceding the event. You'll need to register if you're thinking of going." Casey informed them. Little did he know their minds were already made up.

"We're in." James said, getting the crew's approval in the moment he said it. Casey smiled.

"Good. The more the merrier."

"How long to we have to gain votes?" Kieran asked, intrigued at the thought.

"Two weeks." Casey replied, "Best get your names down asap. From there we can begin the voting. Also, we've been gaining donations through our patrons and the government, so we can, at the very least, get some new equipment while the reps are there."

"That's good, at least everything we take out isn't gonna be an ancient machine." George said, getting a subtle laugh from James and Casey.

"Aside from that, there's nothing else to discuss. You're all dismissed." Casey said. The crew all stood from their chairs and walked out of the room, each were surprised that

Casey didn't bring up the incident with Ben a few minutes before the meeting. But one thing they all knew they were all doing, was getting their names down on that list.

* * *

Sooner than expected, the weeks flew past. Tankfest was upon them. It was time to find out who was to be chosen. On the Friday before Tankfest was to begin, James' year group were called into the assembly hall. It was alive with a sense of anticipation. The poll about as to who would be going to Tankfest would be finalised on that day and the crew to be going would be announced. No one could keep their mouths shut about it. Most were saying who they'd voted for, but some just kept quiet. They all had placed bets as to who was going, some betted £5 and some betted £20. But one thing was certain; they were all excited.

As the crew walked in, not even they were safe from the mass amount of excitement in the hall. They could be chosen, or someone else; but they had a chance. A very strong chance. As soon as the lads had sat down amongst their friends in their form, a tall man walked across the front of the hall. His face was hidden by a black beard and was built up so much he could give the Royal Marines a run for their money. He stopped in the centre and looked at the massed gathering of students before him and smiled.

"Good morning Year Ten." He said in a booming voice. A dull response came from the ranks of the students, it was a Friday morning after all.

"Good morning Mr. Stead." The students replied. Stead wasn't satisfied.

"Oh, come on. It's Friday. Good morning Year Ten." He said again, this time the response was louder. Now he was satisfied.

"There we go. Was that so hard?" He joked, "Anyway, we've a lot of things to attend to this morning. As most of you know, there was a voting box outside my office and has been for the past two weeks. Today is the day we can announce the crew who will be sent down to the Bovington Tank Museum tomorrow to take part and represent the school in Tankfest." He had their attention now. "In Third Place in votes:" A name flashed up on the screen behind him. "Our own Head Boy, Harry Broxton."

A round of applause sounded out from the students. Most had expected Harry to have gone to Tankfest in the first place, with him being Head Boy and his parents being on the school council. He wasn't the most liked student in the school, his inflated ego got the better of him sometimes which made his popularity deflate like a punctured tire.

Once the applause had finished, it was time for second place.

"In second: Staff Sergeant Casey Jones." Once again, the applause sounded out. Of all people who James thought who would be going, it would be Casey. He was the commander of the team after all. Now, the anticipation was at peak levels. This was it. The next person who's name was called out would be the person going to Tankfest. The applause stopped, and time seemed to drag endlessly. Mr. Stead pressed the button and the next name slowly faded onto the screen. And James' face lit up like a roman candle.

"In first place: Sergeant James Byrne." The applause resumed again and lasted considerably longer and louder than before. James couldn't believe it, neither could the rest of them. They were going to Tankfest. _This,_ James thought, _can't get any better._

Alas, he was to be mistaken. It **could** only get better.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3:**

 **Tankfest**

The train from Liverpool Lime Street station was a long drag for the boys, albeit one which they would enjoy. The station from which they had left was full of photographers and representatives from the BBC and ITV reporting on the new season of Panzerfahren games for the year. Needless to say, it was exciting. The train was packed with representatives from all over Merseyside, all going to the Bovington Tank Museum to find out who they would be facing first.

Before the boys could get to Bovington, they would have to change trains at London Euston. A chore but one which was much looked forward to.

"As soon as I get off this sodding train," George spoke up, "I'm legging it to the toilet."

"There are toilets on the train mate." James said, confused. "Just use them."

George refused straight away, "Nope. Not gonna happen. I'm not having the door open like I'm on Take Me Out." The boys laughed at their mate's reason for not using the train's onboard toilet. It certainly was the first time they'd heard him come out with that one. James looked out of the train's window, the scenes of suburban London flew past in the blink of an eye. This was the first time he'd ever been to the capital. In the distance, the grand arch of the Wembley Stadium stood high, as if to welcome the Northerners into the open arms of London. It didn't take long for the first tube trains to start passing them as well. They were definitely in London now.

The Guard came over the speakers, disturbing James and the boys from their thoughts.

"Good Morning Ladies and Gentlemen, we are approaching London Euston Station, where this train will terminate. Can all Panzerfahren students make their way to Platform Eleven where your train will be waiting."

Sure enough, as the guard finished his announcement, the suburbs of London were whisked away as the train entered a cutting on the approach to the station. It was only a matter of minutes until they would reach their stop. Soon the train slowed, and the platforms of Euston station came into sight. The boys packed up their things from the table and prepared to disembark for platform eleven. As the train stopped and the doors opened, the boys shot out of their seats and departed the train carriage.

The station atmosphere was cold and chilling, such was to be expected from a cold September morning. The platform the train had pulled into was almost devoid of people, minus the ones emptying from the train. There were signs directing the teenagers to the platforms from which their train would be leaving for Bovington.

"Come on." James said, leading the crew, as he usually did, towards the platforms. The rest of the boys followed suite swiftly after him.

The train on Platform 11 wasn't anything special, like James was expecting. It was just a standard suburban train with a few extra carriages coupled to the end to avoid overflow of passengers. A sign which stood on the platform read, in big bold letters: _**'Panzerfahren Representatives Only'**_.

"Looks like this is for us." Dan said, beating James to the sentence. They each stepped aboard the Bovington train, with James leading.

As they sat down for another strenuous journey, the boys started talking amongst themselves. The idle chatter of each one of them passed the time as if a button had been pressed on a video. The Journey was quick and was over quicker than expected. Bovington was merely a few minutes away now yet it felt as if they had just left Euston.

By now the conversation had stopped, for the sheer lack of things to talk about. James thought to himself peacefully while, once again, staring out of the train window. Everything in the carriage was drowned out by his thoughts. _Wonder who we'll be up against first_ , he thought. He'd hoped for a school with a borderline average Panzerfahren team, like Woodchurch's neighbouring school Ridgeway. Both schools were separated by the M53 Motorway which split the Wirral Peninsula in twain. They'd had a fierce rivalry going between the schools for decades, especially in Panzerfahren. Although James had hoped it was going to be something along the lines of Ridgeway, it was not always so. It was completely random as to who was to draw the short straw and go up against Eton in the first round.

Eton School for Young Gentlemen were the U.K.'s most formidable school in terms of Panzerfahren matchups. No school had ever won against them apart from a few minor exceptions when Panzerfahren was still a new concept in education after the War. They were seemingly unstoppable to everyone who was unlucky enough to be placed against them.

 _No_ , James thought. _We wouldn't be against Eton first. I hope._

* * *

When the train arrived at Bovington Station, and the crew had disembarked along with everyone else on the private service, they were all herded onto a coach and were shipped off to The Tank Museum. While they were moving from between the station and the world-famous Museum, James spotted a familiar face in the seats in front. A face he hadn't seen in a long time.

"Grace?" He said, moving to try and get a better look at the girl. She was about the same age as James, if not younger but her height contrasted with that sharply. She looked up and smiled when she saw him.

"James! My god, how long's it been?" She said.

"Too long." James replied, smiling back. Grace Manwaring hadn't changed a single bit. She was the Second in command of Wirral Grammar Boys and Girls School, and a formidable strategist. She was able to entrap a whole enemy team in one corner of the play area in a match once and didn't take a single tank knocked out in return. For years, she'd lived next door to James when in primary school and had been the closest of friends; with both of the referring each other as a sibling. They'd lost contact in the years following when James' family moved away, but seeing each other again made almost no difference.

Grace got up from her seat, before running and tackling James with a hug. "How are you?" She said, releasing James from her bear hug.

"Good," James said, reeling from the pain of the bear-hug, "didn't think you'd be going to Tankfest; from your Snapchat at least."

"Yeah well, Finn's sick so I have to fill in for him." Grace replied, "To be honest I can't be arsed." James laughed and smiled,

"Turns out we all can't be pleased."

As soon as James said that, the bus slowed slightly, before taking a turn to the left; and there it was. The Tank museum. The crowds had all piled in the thousands to see this event, which, minus the final matches, was the biggest event in British Panzerfahren. And they couldn't have chosen a more suitable location to hold it.

As the bus entered the museum's grounds, a lone Centurion Mark 3 tank stood as the gate guard. It stood proud and strong, never minding the seemingly hundreds of tourists which all took their picture with it. The tank itself wasn't rusted, but had, what seemed, to be a fresh coat of paint for the occasion. The hot sun reflected off this like a mirror. A large contrast to the decades old Stuart that Woodchurch had as theirs, as it was old, decrepit and falling apart; with the occasional track link being stolen by local gangs.

The bus was surrounded by everyone; visitors to the museum, representatives from all over the country and even those who have ventured from beyond the seas to see what the British tournament was like. Thankfully, the parking spaces for the coach were not so much as crowded as the rest of the outdoors section of the museum. The driver brought the bus to a halt and opened the doors to let the, now restless, teenagers out. Almost as soon as they'd opened, people made a mad dash to the door, wanting to get out of the hot coach and into the refreshing outside.

"I'll see you in there James," Grace said, as she packed up her things from her seat. "Good luck."

"We already have it." James replied, jokingly. While Grace was puzzled at first, she quickly switched onto the joke, and laughed sarcastically. "I wish you good fortune in the games to come." He said, as the old friends parted ways to head to wherever next.

James' phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out, with a message filling the screen. It was from Casey:

' _Good Luck at Tankfest today. Could use some equipment for Kreigsfleiger, and a new 17 pounder. If possible, a new tank or aircraft. The school are providing whatever funds they can now. -C'_

James looked up, the bus was practically empty minus him and his mates. Josh was too busy snoring away with his head propped up against the window, and everyone else had their own thing to do. "C'mon you lot." James said to the crew, snapping them back into reality. "We've got shit to buy."

"What about Josh?" Dan asked, looking at him. James thought for a second before it hit him. He took in a deep breath.

"Josh! Manchester United have won the League!" James shouted at the top of his lungs. Josh snapped awake, ready to defend himself, and his Liverpudlian dignity, from the allegedly incoming Mancunians. To his dismay, and the boy's amusement, there were none to fight off. But there were the rest of his crew absolutely howling with laughter.

"Hey! Not funny James!" Josh said, still trying to clear the sleep from his eyes.

"Then why are we laughing?" James said, hurting from the excessive amount of pleasure it gave him.

"Sod off, arsehole." Josh replied, angered by his friends joke.

"C'mon, Casey texted me. We need to get some stuff for the team." James said, beginning to walk toward the doors of the bus. As he exited through the doors, and thanking the driver, the cool breeze of Dorset winds his face and the strong sun warmed the back of his neck. In contrast to Birkenhead, and the rest of Merseyside, Dorset was as foreign to James as the Canary Islands; but it was more than welcome. The crew, with a sleepy and somewhat angered Josh, soon followed suite. The first thing on their agenda: finding new kit for the team.

Their first stop was a stall near the main entrance of the museum. The company of which it belonged – Uber Flugzeug – was well renowned for making replica Kreigsfleiger aircraft for the schools and teams internationally. Some of the aircraft they had produced, like the team's Spitfire Mk V's and training aircraft. On display, they had a rather large aircraft. It's engine cowling was large, not too dissimilar from a F4U corsair or an F6F Hellcat, the tail and rudder were abnormally larger than anything else James had seen. It's arrester hook on the belly of the aircraft betrayed its identity as a naval aircraft. Beside it was a large screen, showing a video of the aircraft on an airstrip; with a hefty amount of ordnance beneath the wings.

"Uber Flugzeug presents the all new Blackburn Firebrand as it prepares for take-off. The pilot awaits the green light to go." The narrator said, followed up by an imitation of an upper class British accent saying "Go!"

"And it's off on what is sure to be another victory for the Kreigsfleiger team, with Eton student Nigel C. Woodstock at the controls. And look at that: it's up in one." He said, as the Firebrand lugged itself off the ground and into the air.

"Today's game winning mission:" the narrator started, "A daring bombing run. Why, no trouble for the Blackburn Firebrand! But that's not all the Firebrand can do!" The screen then cut to a video of a Messerschmitt Bf109 flying, "A 109 on the prowl; mincemeat for the Firebrand! Watch out!" Within seconds of the narrator finishing his sentence, the Firebrand swept down firing its four 20mm cannons at the Messerschmitt, reducing the aircraft to something which resembled flying swiss cheese before the safety smoke kicked in.

"The Blackburn Firebrand! Remember, nobody has anything like it!" the narrator finished, as did the video.

James was somewhat convinced about buying the Firebrand. It seemed to have what the team was looking for: good ground pounding capabilities and able to take out a hostile aircraft. The only thing which stopped him from asking what the price was, was a tap on his shoulder and a female voice.

"You're a fool if you're gonna buy the Firebrand." It said. James spun around, to see a girl standing behind him. She wore what appeared to be Royal Airforce pilot overalls and uniform but was roughly about the same age as he was. Her hair was tied in a bun beneath her RAF Blue beret and her faded blue eyes looked into James' own with a soft, relaxing look. James' heart fluttered slightly, she was perhaps the prettiest girls he'd seen.

"W-what? It's got everything we need." he said, stuttering from seeing her. The girl shook her head.

"Maybe, but the Firebrand is incredibly slow and sluggish. Sure, its weapons are good. But, what happens when a Fokker Wulf gets on its tail, or a Mustang? You can't shake it, you can't shoot it down and the resilience of the airframe to damage is ridiculously bad." She said, "So, you're better off spending your money on a P-47 Thunderbolt or a P-38."

James was taken aback, he looked at the Firebrand on display. _Maybe_ , he thought, _she might have a point._ "Alright," he said, "your knowledge on aircraft outmatches mine, so I suppose you're right." The girl smiled. It appeared that she liked being right. James held his hand out to her. "James Byrne. You?" He said.

"Katie. Katie Mitchell, though most people call be Farrier." She replied, smiling at her new acquaintance.

"What school are you here with?" James asked, looking to getting to know her a bit more.

"None. I'm here with my cadet squadron, representing the Air Training Corps and such, also to get some new kit for our aircraft. 400 Squadron I'm in." James looked up,

"Birkenhead Squadron?" he asked.

"Yeah, why?" Katie replied.

"Oh, didn't think my old squadron would come all the way down here. Send my regards to Flight Lieutenant Browne, will you?" James answered. He was about to keep chatting to Katie when a voice called out to him,

"C'mon James," it said, "Tanks now, girls later." James turned around, going bright red in the face. Kieran was standing there with a Cheshire cat smile on his face. James had the temptation to land a punch into his friend's shoulder, yet he resisted.

"Kieran, I'm so gonna kick your ass when we get back to the school." He said, Kieran laughed in return as James turned to face Katie. "Catch you later." He said, she nodded in return, before turning and walking off.

* * *

Later in the day, after the presentation of Tanks in the museum's arena, it was time for the main event: The announcements.

Of course, with the majority of the day being gone, James and the crew had been busy. Following what Casey had sent them via text on the bus, they'd bought a few things for the team. Firstly, after James' encounter with Katie, they'd done as she recommended and bought an aircraft which wasn't a Blackburn Firebrand, but a pair of Hawker Tempests; which were known for being the bane of many tank convoys during the Battle for Europe in World War Two. Furthermore, they had placed a bid for three new tanks to add to the arsenal at the expense of selling a few of the older tanks which Woodchurch had already. They had also managed to get a few upgrade packages for a few of the tanks; these would, for example, grant a Sherman tank with its late war turret and a 76mm gun, or a Cromwell with a higher velocity 75mm gun. They'd really made the most of their money this year-round.

With the Announcements due to be made, all of the representatives were gathered into one of the main indoor presentation rooms at the museum, along with members of the press. Now it was time for the main events to be decided.

James looked around from his seat. The hall was filled to the brim with, seemingly, everyone in the museum. They'd gotten lucky, they weren't too far from the front and were close to the pathways, so the crew could get out to find out who they would be facing.

"Who do y'reckon it'll be?" George asked Dan, who merely shrugged his shoulders and relied with an,

"I don't know. Just pray it isn't Eton." The means of finding out who you'd be facing in the matches was by picking a name out of a hat and reading it out. It wasn't the most modern of ways, but it definitely was a tense one. One wrong slice of paper could end up with your team going against Eton in the first round, and from there it's goodnight Vienna until the next year.

The lights suddenly dimmed, and two spotlights were switched on at either side of the room, highlighting a person on stage. They held a card in their hand and read clearly aloud from it.

"Hello all, and welcome to another Tankfest here at the Bovington Tank Museum. Before we start we must say a big thank you to many people who made this year's Tankfest possible: Wargaming and, of course, the Tank Museum itself. Now, before further ado, let us begin." He reached into his pocket and picked out a name on a card. "Can Susie Gunther come forward?"

The first person was called out, and she stepped forward onto the stage as commanded. The reached her hand into the hat and pulled out a sheet. The man looked at it. And smiled.

"In the first round of British Panzerfahren, the first official match announced is: Thomas Telford School, from Telford, against Eton School for Young Gentlemen."

A cheer went up, mostly because Eton had already been picked out of the hat, and therefore couldn't be picked out again. As far as James could see, his team were in the clear. The girl, Susie Gunther, walked back to her school's representatives, visually disappointed with herself. James couldn't help but sympathise with her.

"Next up," the man said, reaching for another sheet, "Can James Byrne come forward?"

James heard his name called, and immediately a shiver of fear ran up his spine. His turn? Already? _Sod it_ , James thought, _if Susie could do it first, I can do it second._ He stood out of his seat, and walked down the path-way. Eyes gazed at him with curiosity. As he neared the stage, his legs began to feel like jelly, yet he pressed onwards. He came to the hat, and reached inside, shuffling the sheets around before protruding one from the hat and handing it to the man.

"Woodchurch High School, from Birkenhead, against Parrenthorn High, from Manchester." Another cheer went up, and James smiled from ear to ear. In the crowds, he saw his crew, Grace and Katie, all clapping and cheering. As he walked back, he saw the team commander of Parrenthorn, who merely nodded his head at James as he passed him, which James returned the favour.

Now they knew what they were up against, James knew deep within himself that this wouldn't be an easy task. But one that they could win? Absolutely.


	4. Chapter 4

Just some fair warning. This chapter does contain quite a large part of profanity, so if that offends you then I suggest that you sit this one out. Also, this gets dark... like really dark.

Just thought i'd let you know

-Jothesniper02

* * *

 **Chapter Four:**

 **The Battle Against Parrenthorn: Part One**

When James and the crew returned to Woodchurch on the Monday after Tankfest, they were surprised to see everyone welcomed them back and thanked James, especially, for choosing Parrenthorn. They were the best school they could've gone up against, considering the whole country was in that hat.

Parrenthorn were, by most Panzerfahren Team's standards, inadequate. Their tanks were ancient, rusting and falling apart more so than some of Woodchurch's. Better still, some were old Mark IV WW1 replicas from when the game was in its infancy. Easy, juicy targets. Albeit they had old tanks, these were supplemented by Panzer IV's and STuG III's, though their numbers were rather low.

Of course, as was to be expected, Casey ordered another meeting. As was the same, James came in and sat down in his usual seat, next to Casey and across from Elise. The meeting was, as he had guessed, about their upcoming match with Parrenthorn; which was within the next week.

"Right," Casey said, kicking off the meeting, "we know what we're up against. Parrenthorn High." Everyone leaned in slightly.

"The match will be based in the Snowdonia National park, in a 25km by 30km exclusion zone. It's the same place where we lost in the quarter finals last year, so we should have a somewhat good idea as to what terrain to expect." Casey then pulled out a map, showing the area of play. In the centre of the map was a fairly large dummy village, which was going to be a definite hot point when the match started. Around the village, were several clutters of woodland; perfect for ambushes. The two starting points were marked out. Woodchurch would start out in the Southeast side while Parrenthorn started in the Northwest.

Elise's hand shot up. "Casey, what are our tactics gonna be for the game?" she asked.

"I was about to get onto that," Casey replied, "As you can see, we start in the Southeast. So, we could send your squadron of Cromwell tanks and Jeremy's two M5's to pick at them from the flanks. James and my company will head through the town, while Jessica and the Kreigsfleiger team keep any counter attack from manifesting and to knock out their air cover. Sound good?"

The room was in agreeance. Nobody protested otherwise.

"Perfect. Now, James what're the other fruits you come bearing?" Casey said, turning to James, whom was in his own world. He couldn't get the thought of Katie out of his head.

"Hm… oh yeah. We managed to purchase a pair of Hawker Tempests, and three new tanks; and a bunch of upgrade packages for the ones we already have."

"Which tanks? Jeremy, the commander of an M-5 Stuart, asked.

"A Sherman Jumbo, A Comet I and a Grizzly. All second-hand but very good condition." James answered. Casey smiled.

"Good, good."

James looked at the map. He was able to recognise the spot where Woodchurch had hidden their flag tank in the quarter finals in the year previous. It might be of good value to learn from their mistakes. He stood up and walked over to the map, pointing the position of the flag tank's destruction in the year before.

"What if we use a fake position? That Japanese school did it not long ago, and the other team were using wire tapping equipment. So why not re-create that situation? Say we are in one place, and attack them when they move to intercept our false movements." James said, suggesting his plan to the team.

"But isn't wire tapping kit illegal?" Jeremy said, what he said wasn't wrong. It was outlawed to use wiretappers in Panzerfahren; but that wasn't what James was suggesting.

"Yeah, it is. What I mean is if we broadcast on the main channel and act as if it is the flag tank is in a certain position, then we strike and take out their forces. Which come to think of it, whose will it be?"

"Well, if we're gonna be flanking and hitting them from the sides then it can't be one of our Cromwells or Jeremy's Stuarts." Elise said, pointing out her tactical decision to hit Parrenthorn from the sides.

"I'll do it," Said a voice. James looked towards toe back of the room, where a relatively large girl was sitting. "Our Churchill is a Mark 7, so we've got more than enough armour to withstand anything they throw at us from the ground."

"Emily are you sure?" asked Casey, "being the flag tank means being the main target. Also, the Churchill is incredibly slow and can be picked off like a fish in a barrel from the air."

"Positive." She replied, "give us some air cover and we should be set."

Casey was going to counter with how the Churchill is a large target from the sky, but he held himself back. If this was her choice, then so be it.

"Right. Before we finalise this, is everyone okay with this approach?"

The room was silent accept for a few coughs and squeaking of chairs. "Good. If you have any other recommendations just see me for further details." Casey said, bringing the meeting to a close. The occupants of the room who were seated stood up and made their way toward the door, reluctantly heading to their classes for the period of the day.

* * *

Within a week, the day had come for the first match for the team. The Telford and Eton match had aired the day before with, unsurprisingly, Eton kicking the metaphorical snot out of Telford. It had definitely opened the year's season with a bang.

With Woodchurch's tanks being transported to the exclusion zone the day before, all the team had to do now was to get there themselves. James had, stupidly, set is alarm for half six in the morning; a good hour and a half before he was usually awake. He merely wanted to make sure he was 10/10 before the match actually begun. That morning, he couldn't shake the feeling that something was bound to go wrong. It wasn't that he didn't have faith in his team mates, he trusted them with his life twofold except Ben, who had been hospitalised after he broke his hand when he punched the _Good-luck_ 's hull. It was more a feeling that something in terms of the match would go wrong. As much as he tried to shake the feeling, he couldn't.

Later, after several mugs of coffee (which had been sweetened to a severe amount) and a short bike ride in the dim pre-dawn September streets of Prenton, James arrived at Woodchurch. He tied his bike up in the sheds and casually walked to reception. At this time in the morning, some of the teachers had yet to arrive, giving James a perfect opportunity to get out his phone.

"Is this a phone which I see before me?" Said Mr. Stead from behind James was sat, startling the occupied teenager. Stead laughed. "Calm down Byrne, just don't let me see it out again." James complied, even though he was halfway through sending a message.

Before long, the rest of the Panzerfahren and Kreigsfleiger team had arrived. They were all cluttered together in a coach, which had been kindly provided by the British Panzerfahren Committee, and set off toward the match's location. The morale and spirit on the coach was high, especially for that early in the morning. It would take up to an hour and a half to get to the Snowdonia park. _Better get some sleep_ , James thought, _don't wanna be dozing off halfway through the game._ James cocked his head to one side, so it would rest against the coach's window, closed his eyes and drifted into a deep sleep.

' _Byrne! Get the Flares!'_

' _Shit! Shit! You're gonna be okay…'_

' _I'll try and stop the bleeding…'_

' _Byrne! Byrne!'_

James snapped awake, sweat clung to his skin like a limpet to the bottom of a ship. He looked around, not realising he wasn't in his dream anymore, but back in the coach, head still on the window. Just how it had been left.

"James, c'mon. Don't wanna be late for the game to begin." Dan said as he walked past his friend.

"Yeah… I'll get to it in a sec." he replied, wiping the sleep which had formed in his eyes. He couldn't ignore what he had just dreamt about. Although he didn't see it, he definitely knew who's those voices were and what they were saying. They were Kieran's and Elise's, calling for help. But for what?

James had no time to ponder, it was just him on the coach now. It wouldn't look good for the rest of the team. He quickly gathered himself and made his way out to where the team had rallied. The rendezvous point was not as barren as the rest of Snowdonia. Instead of some farmers requisitioned field, there were purpose-built hangars, and for those staying overnight, barracks. The only thing that there wasn't, was an airstrip. Because of this, both Woodchurch's and Parrenthorn's Kreigsfleiger teams were bunking at RAF Valley with the Royal Air Force's training squadrons. The sheds, already, had Woodchurch's tanks in them, and it didn't take long for James to find _Good-Luck._ Josh was giving the suspension a final look at, making sure everything was secure and ready to go. George and Dan were both lugging ammunition into the tank's turret, mainly shells but with the occasional ammo box for the .30 and .50 calibre machine guns. Kieran was sitting on the frontal slope of the _Good-Luck_ 's hull armour, casually relaxing as much as he could before the inevitable chaos that the match was going to bring. James looked at his friend, whom did not know what James dreamt about on the way to the grounds.

"James! Are you just gonna stand there?" George said, midway through lugging a high-explosive shell to Dan, "C'mon mate, we need to get ready. Get the self-defence pistols from Casey, will you?"

"Y-yeah, on it." James replied. Thankfully, Casey's tank's shed wasn't far from where James was, so it wasn't much of a bother. The only challenging part was carrying the five sidearms back to the tank. Not wanting to waste anymore time, James made his way over to Casey's shed. In which stood his tank; A Crusader Mk III. The tank itself was not big, having only three crew able to man the thing, but its high velocity 6 pounder gun would easily knock out a Panzer IV or a T-34 in one hit.

Casey, who was himself busying around trying to get everything in top working order, didn't hear James come in.

"Casey, we need the sidearms." James said, deadpanning the sentence. Casey jumped out of his skin, before turning around to face James.

"Bloody hell, you scared the crap out of me." James could only laugh, "Yeah, the pistols are in those crates there." Casey said, pointing to a pile of wooden crates each with the word Self- Defence Sidearms charred into the wood. James merely walked over, taking the top crate, thanking Casey and returning to the _Good-Luck_.

* * *

In the minutes before the match began, Casey called an emergency meeting. By now, the tanks of both teams were set up in their start points. The purpose of the meeting was unknown, until Casey started with a very blunt sentence.

"Their flag tank is a Mark IV."

"A Churchill? Elise asked, fearing that if it were her flanking team would certainly have trouble.

"No. A Mark IV." Casey repeated. It was then that James switched on.

"As in a First World War tank?" He said. Casey merely nodded in return. James, now with the knowledge of the flag tank, couldn't help but feel excited. Mark IV tanks were notoriously weakly armoured, and slow. If this information was correct, it was easy running in this round.

"That was what I called you here for. Now, quick, get back. We've only got a few minutes before the game starts!"

James dashed back to the tank, as did everyone else. Casey wasn't wrong, the match began in a few minutes, and they certainly weren't going to be starting late.

* * *

" _Match Start!"_

The voice came over the radio, saying the two words that everyone both teams had been listening for. Now, the safeties came off, and the tanks surged forward. James opened the commander's hatch of the Good-Luck and shuffled his body out of the hatch until he was comfortable. He squinted his eyes as the dust kicked up from the tanks to his front made it hard to see.

" _This is Lead, calling all Woodchurch team members."_ Casey said over the radio, _"Initiate the split. Blue Squadron give the flag tank cover. Good hunting."_

" _Roger that, best of luck."_ Elise replied as she, her Cromwell Squadron and the Stuarts peeled off from the main formation and accelerated to catch the Parrenthorn tanks by surprise.

"We're with you, boss." James sounded out, "Josh, get us into formation with Casey. Left side on the Vanguard."

"Roger." Josh returned, pulling on levers and sticks to get the Good-Luck in position. Their objective was simple: Take the village. "We're at 20 miles per hour James."

"Good, keep in formation. Everyone keep your eyes peeled."

* * *

The Parrenthorn battle squadron, as soon as the green light to begin the match was given, quickly dissipated. Their flag tank, the schools Mark IV, was to be defended by the majority of the team's tank destroyers; which ranged from STuG III's to Valentine Archers. The rest of the team's tanks were to head to the town and hold it. It was the main choke point, as any flanking missions around the town were across open fields, making anything that crossed it easy pickings for any tanks in the village. So, therefore, it was imperative for the village to be captured.

Parrenthorn's commander, a lad by the name of Jacob Smith, sat atop of his Panzer IV's turret. It shook and swayed as it crossed the terrain with lightning speed to beat Woodchurch to the village. It was not alone however, its company consisted of two early model Panzer III's and a Panzer II. Not the most dangerous tanks in the world but were better than nothing.

"Tanks of my squad listen up." Jacob said, speaking into his throat mic, "We just need to take out their flag tank and we've won this game. Our air cover should take care of that. In the meantime, if you see one of their tanks…" He paused, thinking of his next words carefully, "show no mercy. Shoot them 'till their flags fly high!"

* * *

Sooner than expected, James, Casey and their company arrived at the outskirts of the village. From their point of view, on the top of a near ridgeline, the village looked deserted. Not a tank in sight.

"Blue Squadron? Come in. What's your status?" Casey spoke into his radio set. It took a second to reply.

" _We're all clear up here. Spotted several tanks moving into the village not long ago, they must've already set up positions in there."_ There was a pause, _"Bandit! Twelve O'clock!"_ She shouted, with the microphone still on.

James looked up, to where the low droning noise of the Spitfire and Hurricane's engines originated from, and surely enough at their direct front just a little bit higher than they were, were three aircraft. Two, from a first glance looked to be fighters, but on closer inspection turned out to be JU87 Stuka's, and the first one which was leading the formation was, in fact, a Fokker Wulf 190: the bane of the Spitfire Mk V.

"Jess keep them off the flag tank. That'll be what they're going for!" Casey shouted down the radio, "Guys, ahead slow. We're moving into the village."

"Roger." Said James, who was echoed numerous times by other members of the company. "Josh, ahead slow." He said to the driver, who complied; bringing the tank to a slow creep forward.

The village was desolate. Nothing moved, or it didn't dare to. Casey's Crusader was leading the expedition in, with _Good-Luck_ following suite, which was followed by the rest of the company. Above them, Jess and Blue Squadron were trying their best with the FW190 and Stukas. James, who had buttoned himself up previously, opened the hatch again and looked up.

One of the Stukas was trailing fluorescent green smoke, indicating that it had been knocked out and was returning to RAF Valley, the other had a Hurricane sight on its 6 o' clock peppering it with .303 bullets. The FW190 and Jess' Spitfire were locked in a fierce duel. The occasional burst of cannon and machine gun fire echoed through the sky as either of them got a good target of the other. James, while mesmerised at the dogfight, turned his attention back to the village. Ahead of the column of tanks, was the village square.

"All tanks, Halt, Halt." Casey sounded out on the radio, before popping the tank's hatch open and looking at the buildings ahead with a pair of binoculars. Nothing he saw seemed out of the ordinary.

"Wait," he said to himself, "that's an odd place to put a shed… SHIT!"

A loud _Ka-Boom!_ sounded out, and the 'shed' in front of the tanks erupted in flame and kicked up dust as it shot a shell at Casey's Crusader. He instinctively ducked down back into the tank. The shell missed but it wouldn't be long 'till another was on its way.

"Shoot him! Light him up!" Casey shouted at his gunner, who slammed his foot down on the 6 pounder's firing pedal, setting off the shell in the breech and launching the shell down range. With a _Clang!_ the shell struck the wooden planks on the shed outline, exposing a Panzer III Medium tank. The Panzer III shot again, this time the shell didn't miss, but struck the Crusader's turret side, bouncing off and striking the ground.

"Get another one gone!" _Ka-Boom!_ The 6 Pounder breech rocked back, discarding the shell casing. The Armour Piercing shell hit the front slab of armour on the Panzer III, which penetrated the tank. A dull _Clunk_ followed as the knock out flag popped out of the top of the turret.

"All tanks," Casey said over the radio, "times one Panzer III destroyed. First kill of the year. Continue moving into the town square."

"Jesus Christ." James said under his breath. The engagement was perhaps one of the quickest outcome of a tank duel he'd seen. "No doubt that Panzer III crew bricked it as bad as Casey did." James said over the Good-Luck's intercom, to which the crew all laughed in return.

"Cromwell squadron, how are things down your end?" James spoke into the radio.

"No enemy contact yet, will inform you of any Parrenthorn tanks making a move." Elise replied, albeit a few seconds later.

"Alright, stay sharp." James said, shutting the radio off and focusing on what lay ahead.

Soon, the column was moving again. It wasn't much further until the village square now, it lay just ahead of them. The village, now that the Panzer III had been dealt with, was once again silent. Nothing but the rumble of engines and the squeak of tracks made a noise. As the square approached, and the column entered, another _Bang!_ sounded out, and the whistle of a high-velocity shell shot over the turret of _Good-Luck_ , impacting in a house behind the tank; sending debris flew out peppering _Good-Luck_ with rubble.

"Fuck! Tank right Dan, tank right!" James shouted. Dan immediately cranked the turret traverse until the gunsight was over the shell's origin: A Panzer IV H. "AP! Shoot the bastard with AP!"

George slammed a shell into the 75's gun breech. "Gun up!" he yelled.

"Down range!" Dan barked, throwing his whole weight on the firing peddle. The shell came shooting out of the breech, flying through the air for milliseconds until it slammed into the turret front of the Panzer IV H, knocking it out.

James was breathing heavily, sweat dripped from his nose and chin. He turned on his radio,

"All tanks… One times Panzer IV destroyed." There was a brief pause of silence in the fighting compartment of _Good-Luck_.

"James?" George said, looking up at his commander, "You shat yourself more than Casey and the Panzer III crew put together." The crew laughed hard at the loaders remark, with James smirking a devilish smirk trying not to laugh at the stab at him.

"Alright," said James, chuckling, "I'll let you have that one mate."

"Yes! Get in!" Said George, celebrating his commander's willingness to accept defeat, which his reaction lead to more laughter from the crew.

" _All tanks in the town, dismount. Memphis and The Shankly are to be on sentry duties at the main road leading out."_ Casey reported.

"Guys, get out. Looks like we've got time to chill." James said over the tank's intercom. Almost immediately, the boys unlocked their hatches and leapt out of the tank, tanking in the fresh, cool air. Two tanks, the _Memphis_ and _The Shankly_ moved around the gathering of Woodchurch tanks and their dismounted crews to race to the other side of the square, where the continuation of the road carried on, to defend it from any incoming Parrenthorn forces.

"So, we'll accept your surrender; if it's all the same to you." Casey said to Jacob, who was dismounting from his Panzer IV.

"That's not in the rules, y'know." Jacob replied, hopping down from the panzer's hull and walking toward Casey.

"I know. Just always wanted to say it." Jacob chuckled, before protruding his right hand.

"Jacob Smith." He said, as Casey took his hand and shook it.

"Casey Jones." He returned.

Their conversation was cut short as the dull roar of aircraft engines began to echo above them once more. James looked up, as did the rest of the crew. A lone Stuka flew, with Jess' Spitfire on it's tail and gaining. Jess had slammed her throttle to 100% but was gaining on the Stuka too slowly to stop its dive. The Stuka's nose dropped, and the ear-piercing hell screech of the Jericho Trumpets sounded out.

"Get to Cover!" James shouted, diving back through the commander's hatch of _Good-Luck_. The rest of the crew dove for the underbelly of the tank, while others ran for the houses which surrounded the village centre; Casey being one of them

As the Stuka dived closer, the three bombs which her hanging from it's belly were released, before the Stuka pulled out of it's hell-dive and levelled out. The bombs fell short of their intended targets, and instead landed on the roof of one of the houses. Two seconds went past. The bombs exploded, rocking the Good-Luck and James inside it. He waited a second longer before popping the hatch open, just enough for him to be able to see out of it.

And he couldn't believe what he saw.

The house in front of him was reduced to nothing more than rubble…

and lying, face flat in the cobblestones of the square's road, in a shallow puddle of his own blood, was Casey's body… bloodied, cut, and seemingly lifeless. A chill shot up James' spine.

He looked back into the turret. There was a box to his immediate left, labelled as ' _EMERGENCY FLARES_ '. He reached over, his hands shaking violently to unlock said box when the hatch was flung open.

"Byrne! Get the bloody flares!" Kieran shouted into the turret, just as James unlatched the lid and got the flare gun out. James, in a state of shock, clambered clumsily out of the turret. He aimed the flare into the sky and pulled the trigger. He dared not look down, at the molested body of his friend. The pained shouts of his team mates, and of Jacob's crew all became morphed into one.

"Shit! Shit! Hand me the bandages, I'll try and stop the bleeding."

"It's alright Case, you're gonna be okay…"

James' world went black, and he fell back into the Good-Luck's turret.

Too scared to even move an inch…

* * *

So, how 'bout that? Eh?

Just what you need to get the next few chapters up and running... and the rest of the story somewhat.

Anyway, feel free to review this next chapter and the story as a whole. The support really helps, and I also wanna know how I'm doing.

-Jothesniper02


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five:**

 **The Battle Against Parrenthorn: Part Two**

Elise looked out onto the Welsh heath. Nothing. Not a single thing moved out there. No targets, no flag tank, not even the native Hares moved in the barren moonscape before them. For the past ten minutes, she and her squadron of Cromwells and Stuarts had been holding an ambush position in one of the many spots of woodland in the exclusion zone. To their immediate right, at least a mile away to her vague judgement, was the village. Casey, James and the rest of their platoon had entered not long ago, and the sounds of gunfire coming from the village was an obvious remark that they weren't alone.

Above them, Jess and Blue squadron were tangled in a dogfight with three of Parrenthorn's own. Two of the Parrenthorn's aircraft had been dumping green smoke, and had been seen returning to RAF Valley. A clear sign of their status as 'shot down'. The third was proving to be a right pain in the backside for Jess' Spitfire to get. It was slower, with a fixed set of wheels under the fuselage, but was piloted by someone who, at the very least, knew what they were doing.

" _We should get going."_ Jeremy said over the platoon radio, _"Parrenthorn should be distracted by Casey's lot in the village, so we can charge from our position here and give them a spot of surprise buttse-"_

"Alright Jeremy, I heard you." Elise exclaimed, cutting Jeremy off from his, probably, favourite catchphrase, "It's not too bad of a plan, not gonna lie. But we'll be charging out in the open, so if there's a TD in those trees ahead of us then we'll be torn to shreds."

"Um… Elise, we've got smoke grenades in the launchers." Said Elise's gunner, Hannah.

"Since whe- never mind. Okay Jeremy, looks like we're going ahead with your plan after all." Elise announced, turning to face Jeremy's Stuart and giving a thumbs up, "All tanks of my squad, listen up! We're gonna charge the ridgeline at our 12 o'clock. We'll each deploy smoke out of the launchers and fire smoke shells if you've got 'em."The commanders of the six tanks all replied over the radio in a chorus of agreement.

"Prepare to ch-" she said, being cut off from the abrupt static coming over the radio set.

"All tanks of both schools, this is James Byrne of Woodchurch high. Cease fire immediately, we have a casualty in the main square of the village. Any medical help is required ASAP!" James' voice sounded distraught and there was a distinct quiver in it. She looked over to the village; where a crimson flare shot out of it high into the clouded sky. Elise knew immediately that something bad had happened; Something she didn't want to think about.

* * *

"James? C'mon bud, we need you." A distorted voice said. James, who was slumped at the bottom of _Good-luck's_ turret, slowly regained consciousness. He looked up, and through the haze of his fogged-up eyes he could make out someone who was popping their head through the commander's hatch. After a few more seconds of focusing, James made the face out to be George. "C'mon, we need you on deck. Casey's hurt bad."

"Right." James said, his eyes still adjusting from the few minutes of unconsciousness. No doubt he would've been ridiculed for that, but what could he say? He was only human. "How bad is he?" James asked as he began to lift himself out of the commander's cupola. George needn't respond.

Casey was, by now, on a bloodied stretcher. The wounds he'd sustained were mostly on his back from the shards of shrapnel from the bomb and chunks of brick from the building. Many of the foreign objects stuck out prominently from his back. Some gashes had already bled through the layer of bandages in place already. Despite his wounds, he was still conscious; and fighting back the oncoming darkness. James climbed out of the hatch of _'Good-luck',_ unable to take his eyes off his friend, who seemed to be in hands reach of death. Jacob was helping as much as he could, radioing his team to stand down until the all clear was given by match officials.

In the distance, the distinctive _whir_ of a helicopter echoed over the Welsh countryside, and soon, an Air Rescue Merlin helicopter hovered over the town square. The sound was so loud, that many students covered their ears and had to shout at the top of their lungs to even be heard in the slightest. Casey's stretcher was hooked onto the helicopter's winch, which slowly dragged him up and into the Merlin's passenger compartment. Once he was inside, and the doors were shut, the Merlin turned tail and made for the nearest hospital. When it had disappeared over the horizon, the mood in the village steeped downward into a great depression.

James, and the rest of the crew, had sat down on the outside of _'Good-luck'._ Each one of them didn't speak a word. They merely looked down, either at their boots or the ground beneath the tank's tracks. By now the majority of the village square was desolate, Jacob's Panzer IV had been towed away as had Casey's Sherman, and the remaining tanks and their crews just sat in silence waiting for orders.

" _Golf Lemur, this is Bravo Company Commander, everything alright up there_?" Elise's voice came over the radio inside the turret. James snapped out of his trance and came to. He clambered back inside and picked up the speaker from its latch.

"Bravo Company Commander, this is Golf Lemur, Casey has been hit and severely wounded. Waiting on further orders, over." There was a long pause before Elise spoke again. In his mind, James could imagine Elise's reaction; and it was something he didn't want to dwell on.

" _Roger,"_ She said, _"Hope you're all okay there James. Out."_ Feedback came over the radio as Elise hung the radio speaker up on its latch. James' head sunk.

"James? You okay in there, bub?" Dan said, leaning over far enough to just be able to see into the turret. Dan, out of all of the ' _Good-luck_ 's crew, had come out the situation the best. He and Casey were never close, stemming back to early years before Woodchurch brought them together in Panzerfahren.

"Yeah," he replied, still looking at the radio set, "Elise was asking what was going on, 'tis all." Dan nodded in return.

"Any word on what we're supposed to be doing?" he asked, tilting his head slightly.

"Not a bloody peep." James exclaimed "You'd think after that shit-show the match officials would give us some guidance at least." He said hysterically, now looking upwards at his friend.

"Just keep it together, bub." The young gunner replied, "You're our commander, that means something. You're the one keeping us together and we can't have you like this, you get me?"

"Yeah," James said, "I understand. Cheers mate."

"Don't worry about it."

* * *

Another hour passed. Nothing. The match officials hadn't said a word to either team. Some of the team in the village had started to give up hope. Elise's squadron of Cromwells had set up a makeshift harbour area, where the crews could relax a little. Morale was low. Very low.

The boiling vessel inside the Good-luck steamed the inside of the tank into a sauna, as George lifted out the fourth packet of rations from it, and handed it to Josh. All the crew bar James, who would've settled for just a hot mug of tea, now had one. It was a vain attempt to bring back and restore morale in the crew. The ominous silence which had settled over the town was broken by the occasional onset of laughter from inside a few of the tanks, as they too had tried to lift the ominous fog of low morale.

The crew had begun to tuck in to the packets of boiled food when the radio crackled to life; causing the crew to jump in surprise. James swing around and lifted the speaker off its latch just in time for the radio to start speaking.

" _All tanks of both teams. This is match official Steven Loftbridge. We apologise for the delay, we have been sorting out problems with a casualty. In fifteen minutes time, you will be restarting the match. Woodchurch High, you will have to select your new commander within ten minutes. You will both have to start from your current locations. Do we have an agreeance?"_ it said, James pressed the speak button and replied,

"Yes, Sir." Before hanging the speaker back onto the latch. He turned to his crew, "Well, better cast in my bid." He said, before climbing out of the hatch above him. As his head escaped the cold embrace of _'Good-Luck'_ , with the wind blowing a gentle breeze, James saw that the other tank commanders were, like him, removing themselves from their tanks and congregating around in a circle in the middle of the square.

As he approached, he could only hear a loud crescendo of arguing teenagers, each one with their own points as to why they should be the team commander.

"I'm our year's head boy," Harry Broxton said, adjusting his glasses, "I should be the commander by default. Everyone knows it." James rolled his eyes significantly at this. Harry would always say something like this, his ego was simply too big. Surprisingly, a few commanders agreed with Broxton. Unsurprisingly, they were close friends of him.

"The team needs someone who can lead and bring us together, not divide us like you, Broxton." Liam, commander of ' _The Shankly'_ , snapped back, which only inflated the argument to another tier.

"How dare you!" Broxton replied, his face turning red with rage, "I will not stand for this! The headteacher will be hearing of this!"

James stood where he was, apart from the rest, and just watched. He removed his team beret from his head and ruffled up his hair; it felt good to let his head breathe again.

Soon, a good five minutes had passed. The argument had prevailed nothing. Harry Broxton was still shouting gibberish instead of seeing reason and giving in, and the commanders against him wouldn't pack in either.

 _Soon,_ James thought, _soon we'll have to come to something. But it can't be either of those two otherwise the team would wither and crumble._

"I'll have you know I'm the son of the school councillor!" Broxton said, derailing James' train of thought.

"You con shove your father up your arse, Broxton! Social status means fuck all here!"

James had simply had enough. He reached down to his thigh, where his Webley holster resided. His hand closed around the pistol grip and he removed it from its resting place. James raised it above his head, shielded his ears as best he could and pulled the trigger.

 _BANG!... BANG!..._

The bickering stopped, almost instantly. The congregation turned toward James, who lowered his revolver and placed it back in its holster. Everyone was looking at him, even the students from inside the tanks had popped their heads out of their hatches. He walked forward.

"Listen up!" He said, "We need a commander now, and if we don't then we're toast! And looking at the way things are going, we won't get one out of the two of you." James paused, thinking of what to say next. By now, he was well inside the circle of previously arguing students.

"We need to band together, now more than before. Casey's got us all a little sad right now, but this is not what we would want." He paused again, this time for longer. "He'd want us to pull together and push on. Regardless of what happens." Nobody spoke.

"C'mon mate," Kieran said, under his breath, "say the words."

"Which is why… which is why I feel I… should be team commander." James said, letting out a heavy breath. His legs felt like jelly, and he felt somewhat light headed; but stayed standing.

The congregation all looked amongst themselves. While James was neither from a family from a high social status, nor had the most experience on the team, he knew how to lead. How else would he have held his crew together for so long, and made that ancient tank of his work? They looked amongst themselves for a little longer, when, without saying a word, they universally agreed.

"Alright, James." Harry said, reluctantly, "We'll give you this chance."

"So, what would you have us do, commander?" Liam asked. James smiled at the remark. He thought for a second, but not a second longer.

"Get me one of those damned maps." He said swiftly. The crew of ' _Good-luck'_ smiled. Commander Byrne was now in charge.

* * *

So, after like four months? finally got Chapter 5 done.

Just gonna let you in on this now, i HATED doing this chapter. i've done so many re-writes on just this chapter alone i just want it gone.

Anyway, hope you enjoyed. At this rate, chapter 6 will be out by Christmas! Jokes, jokes. But i'll try and get Chapter 6 done as soon as possible

Also, i'm putting together a 'soundtrack' for the story. i'll post the playlist on my YouTube: Project Panzerfahren

Catch you next time

\- Jothesniper02


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6:**

 **Battle against Parrenthorn Part Three**

The Woodchurch flag tank sat solemnly in its spot in the trees. Its crew, having each given up on seeing action in this match, had since exited the tank and were up to their own devices as to what they did next. Emily, the commander of the Mk 7 Churchill tank in question, was sitting quietly in her commander's hatch, still looking ahead; just in case. They'd heard what happened over in the town through the radio, about Casey. To say they were plagued with worry would be an understatement.

"Em?" a voice asked, snapping Emily out of her seemingly permanent stare to the tank's front, she looked to her left, from where the voice had originated and saw her friend, Danielle, looking at her from the ground. "You alright?" She asked.

"Yeah," Emily replied, "thanks Dani." A faint smile revealed itself on Emily's pale lips.

"Any word on what's happening?" Danielle asked from below, the former shook her head,

"It's been a good two hours now since the ceasefire was called. The radio channel's been silent since. They're taking the piss."

"Shit." Danielle said, her head falling down to look at the ground upon which her boots were standing. "I hope he's alright, Casey I mean."

Emily sighed, and took her time with her answer. "Yeah, me too. I guess everyone must've seen what happened, so I just hope everything… is fine and dandy."

Suddenly, the radio crackled and sprung to life. Emily practically threw on her radio headphones to listen in.

" _All callsigns, all callsigns. This is… Commander James Byrne."_ The familiar voice said over the radio set, _"I have been appointed as your commander for the remainder of the match. We have fifteen minutes to get ourselves ready for the match to restart."_

There was a pause, before Elise came over the radio.

" _Roger, Bravo Company is awaiting your orders… Commander."_

Emily picked up the speaker, "Golf Lemur, this is the Flag tank, we're with you James." She spoke into the microphone, before releasing the speaker from her grasp and placing it back on its slot in the turret. A second passed until another commander declared their allegiance to James. The last was, predictably, Ben, who gave a disgruntled snarky response to the announcement. It appeared the underdog had taken command.

" _James, what's out battle plan?"_ Elise asked, once the cavalcade of responses had ceased. There was a pause, before James responded.

" _All tanks, proceed with the plan at hand. We haven't the time to re-think our strategy now, so let's finish this as we planned. The flag tank is to hold position, Elise and Jeremy's tanks are to proceed to their planned positions. Task force centre is to sweep the town for their flag tank. Any questions?"_

Emily picked up the speaker, "Golf-Lemur, this is the flag tank, we're stuck out here on our own. Any chance of support?" she asked, half-heartedly. James' reply took a while, but it came:

" _Flag tank, this is Golf Lemur, I'm re-deploying Carter's Wolverine to your position. ETA 13 minutes."_ Emily sighed heavily, of all people, why Carter?

"Roger, Out." The battle plan was decided now. They had now ten minutes to get ready, then, once more, all hell would break loose.

* * *

Across the play arena, the deep rumble of engines echoed across the heath, village, and throughout the surrounding mountains. Two minutes remained on the timer before the match re-started, and in the Woodchurch tanks and aircraft, the resolve had never been stronger. Jess had been circling lonely over the airfield waiting patiently for the green light to be given. James sat in the turret of _'Good-Luck'_ with the hatch un-buttoned, and his upper body standing out of the Sherman tank. The cannon had been loaded with Armour Piercing shot and the machine guns were racked and ready to go. Aside from _'Good-Luck'_ , the rest of the tanks in the town had prepared themselves. They were going to rip through the Parrenthorn tanks left in the area. Elise's squadron had been set into gear early, so they would dash straight across the open field which lay before them and into the Parrenthorn controlled area. Carter's Wolverine had met up with the Flag tank, and had set up in a defensive position, complete with sandbags, and prepared for anything frontally. Jessica had returned to RAF Valley to be re-armed and re-fuelled, and now had six RP-3 Dumbfire Rockets slung beneath her Spitfire's wings. She was the last aircraft left flying in the whole match now, perfect.

James looked down into the turret of his tank, Dan had his face pressed up against the gunsight of the M3 cannon, George on the other hand was sitting with his head in his hands. He didn't move, and he did not have his standard issue smile that the crew were so used to seeing.

"You okay, mate?" He asked his friend, who merely replied with a muffled moan. James had known George long enough to recognise what he meant, and it was a distinct sign to 'bugger off', as James remembered George put it, though he wasn't about to give up,

"C'mon bud, I need you to get together and perform now, okay? We can't operate without you. You are a piece of all of our puzzle." George looked up at James, who had leant over and placed a hand on his shoulder. A shallow smile cracked on his friend's face.

"Yeah," George replied, "yeah, I hear you lad. I'm just tired, is all." James smiled, and recoiled back to his position in the tank.

"Better get this done quickly then." He exclaimed.

The sound of static filled the tank again, as the radio coughed and spluttered, until it spoke;

" _MATCH RESTARTED!"_

James threw his hand toward the speaker and pressed the button, "All tanks, move to your allocated positions!" He flipped a switch on the radio box, "Jess! Get airborne ASAP and find out where that Flag tank is!" Once again, he flipped a switch on the radio, "Josh, move out!" he said, which Josh replied with a push of a lever and the press of a pedal. _Good-luck_ lurched forward once more, and chaos was about to be unleashed again.

 _...20 Minutes Later..._

Far above the ground, a lone Spitfire flew. It's Rolls-Royce engine roared and echoed in the skies around it; with nobody but the pilot to hear it. Jess, who had been flying at high altitude for the past five minutes, hadn't seen a thing from below. She could see the town which James' tank platoon was in, still, but even an inexperienced pilot could see that from where she was. Above her was only clouds, and she needn't worry about them. Parrenthorn's aircraft had all returned to RAF Valley, having been knocked out of the match prior to the hiatus, caused by the Stuka, which she shot down seconds later it dropped the fateful bomb. She held pity in her heart for the pilot who had to hear it was his bomb that seriously injured Casey.

" _Golf Lemur to Blue One, Jess, you see anything?"_ James said over the radio, her response was swift:

"James, I can't see jack shit up here. The only thing keeping me up here is the possibility of Anti-Air tanks." She said, manoeuvring the Spitfire to a slightly lower altitude. Time ticked by as she awaited James' reply. Eventually it came, but not as she expected.

"Jess, cut the shit!" He shouted, a heavy clang ringing out soon after, followed by a loud _BANG!_ "We've got 4 panzers to out front, we've been ambushed! Hose them with your rockets, will you?" He screamed in her ears through the radio set, "Target the red smoke!"

"Affirmative, one RP-3 Special coming up!" She answered, banking the Fighter over and diving toward the ground, opening the Spitfire's throttle while doing so.

"George! Next shell load Red Smoke then A…" James' voice rebounded through her headset, oblivious that he still had his hand on the speaker button.

The ground grew larger, as it grew closer. Directly in front of the Spitfire's nose, lay the four tanks which James had told her to attack; complete with the red smoke. First, she let loose with her machine guns and cannons. A horde of .303 and 20mm shells coursed through the air, splattering in a shower of sparks on the roofs of the four Parrenthorn Tanks. The .303's did little more than scratch the paintwork of the tank's roofs, but the 20mm shells tore chunks of armour plating off the roofs. Not enough to knock out the tank, or thankfully harm the crew, but it was effective in chipping away at their morale.

Her throttle was, by now, as far open as it would let, but she still kept pushing on the lever unhappy with her, already breakneck speed. She flipped a handle on her joystick, switching the rocket's safeties off and with a slam of the trigger, the rockets shot out beneath the Spitfire's wings. Milliseconds passed before the result of the barrage emerged. Mountains of fire, dirt and water were sent high in the sky, raining down on Woodchurch and Parrenthorn Tanks alike. Jess yanked back of the control-stick with all her might, and the nose of the aircraft rose up rapidly. As the Spitfire rose, Jess' G-suit kicked in, forcing the blood in her body toward her head to keep her conscious; without which she would've been done for. Soon, she had fought off the oncoming darkness of G-force induced sleep and levelled herself out. She looked back down, her rockets were a direct hit on the Parrenthorn Panzer IV, as well as knocking out a supporting Panzer III; halving the tanks that were threatening James' platoon.

"Great hits Jess! We can take the other two now, see if you can recce that bloody flag-tank!" James screamed over the radio, much to Jess's dismay. Her orders still stood, and now it was best to get them done, lest they take more casualties.

 _...40 minutes later..._

The Churchill sat still as a tree in the same place it had for the duration of the match. Not a thing moved an inch to the front of the tank. By now, the girls crewing the flag-tank had merely given up on keeping their minds in the game, let alone staying in the tank. Each had sat on the grass beside the beast which they crewed. Even Em had decided against keeping watch for anything, as she deemed it a waste of time when she could be chilling out at the back of the arena. Nothing was going to happen, she reasoned. Jess, by now, hadn't seen a thing in relation to the silhouette of a Mark IV tank. James and Elise's platoons had met up in a pincer move, having not encountered any resistance apart from what appeared to be a rear guard action by the Parrenthorn tanks.

Carter, whom had fortified the Em's position with his own M10 Wolverine, slumped in his commander's seat. Binoculars hung off his neck and his eyelids drooped as the welcome embrace of sleep called him.

"Heh," snickered Nathan, the Wolverine's Gunner, even Carter's gone el kippo." The crew laughed slightly, however the radio operator looked confused.

"El kippo?" he asked, tilting his head to the left slightly.

"Christ Joel," Nathan responded, "I thought it was all you Year 8's coming up with this crap." He sighed. "El kippo… Going kip… any connection in that ginger head of yours?" Nathan smiled devilishly, while Joel slumped his head.

"Oh… yeah… right…" He said, turning around facing the Tank Destroyer's frontal plate.

"It's only banter mate, don't take it personal." Alun, the loader, said. Joel nodded in response, but remained quiet. "Oh well done Nathan, you've upset the newbie." Alun snapped at the gunner, who shot him a death stare.

"Oi, piss off!" He said, "I'm always having banter with people, but now it's too far?"

Joel, ignoring the conversation as best he could, lifted his head up and looked through the driver's periscope. Through the camouflage netting and bushes of their position, he saw something, something which didn't look like a bush or a tree. In fact, it didn't move with the breeze or match up in the same colours. Joel was confused, he knew what a tank looked like, he was crewing one after all, but this one wasn't like the tanks in the recognition handbook he'd seen. This was squatter, and had no turret. Strange. Almost alien like to the untrained eye. He was about to say something when movement caught his eye. Cresting the ridgeline from where he'd seen the strange object another object appeared, this one was moving, and, more importantly, was one he recognised. A STuG III.

"Movement! 12 o' clock!" He exclaimed. Nathan and Alun snapped out of their feud the millisecond Joel piped up. They each popped their heads out of the turret like a pair of meercats, and before them lay the jackpot. The Parrenthorn flag tank.

"SHIT! Carter wake the fuck up, mate! Em?! Mount up! Contact Front!" Alun screamed at the bursting limit of his lungs as he threw a 3 inch shell into the breech. "Ready!"

"Brace!" Nathan shouted, and he slammed the firing pedal, and the music of the gun sounded out; sending the AP shell flying at supersonic speeds toward the hostile armour.

The shell impacted a few meters short of the Mark IV, sending dust and dirt flying and peppered the Parrenthorn tanks. Seconds passed and Em's Churchill unleashed hell with its own 75mm cannon; its own shot flying over the intended target. A few more seconds passed, and in the ecstasy of fumbling to load the gun again, the whistle of a foreign shell was growing in volume, before a great _CLANG_ echoed off the sided of the Wolverine, sparks emitting from the side of the turret as a steel gash had now formed as a shell ricocheted off and slammed into the ground behind. Alun punched the shell into the gun, and macroseconds passed before the pedal was slammed with all of Nathans weight on it, firing the cannon once more.

And this time the shell hit true. Sparks flew from the Mark IV as the armour-piercing shell tore through what pitiful excuse for armour it had, and triggered the K.O. system.

" _THE MATCH IS OVER"_ The announcer spoke into the radio, _"WOODCHURCH HIGH SCHOOL WINS THE GAME!"_

A cheer went up, as the sweet sound of their victory vibrated through their ears. Everybody celebrated where they were. James couldn't help but smile. While he was taken aback by the surprise of the announcement, he couldn't not welcome the fact that they had won. He cheered, proud to have come through this. But soon, his cheer fell silent. As the cost of victory was cemented firmly in his mind.

* * *

"Well how about that for an ending, eh Markus?" A man said, watching the finale of the Parrenthorn-Woodchurch match. He was dressed in smart attire as he looked toward his colleague. They sat side by side to one another, cameras pointed toward them and the logo of Tankery Today!, the biggest Panzerfahren television broadcast in the British Isles.

"Hmmm…" Markus replied, "So surprising, considering they had the head of the team cut off in one fell swoop."

"Yes, but one has grown back in its stead, what is his name again?"

"Oh my dear Casper, I do believe it is James Byrne who is the new Commander." Markus smiled, turning to Casper, who nodded in acknowledgement of James' name. "Of course there's the nasty business of the incident with Casey Jones."

"Hmm, yes." Casper said, "I'm afraid things like this happen in Panzerfahren, I sorely wish they didn't." He frowned, clearly unsettled by the Stuka pilot's mistake. "But this is a game of war, such things are common." Markus spoke up, looking at

"But, I'm afraid that's all we have time for on Tankery Today! By the end of the second British National Match, Woodchurch take the game! But blood is spilt, and we can only imagine what they must be feeling now. Our thoughts go out to the teammates and family of the injured today. The real question is, will they cope with the loss and fight on? Or will they pull out of the competition?" The theme of the show began to play as the credits were cut on the T.V. broadcast. The whole country had tuned in to watch Tankery Today! and now they all knew:

Hard times lay ahead for the Woodchurch Few.

* * *

Well guys, HOLY SHIT.

I'm not dead! and I did not expect my own bluff to come true... 'out before Christmas' he said, *Chapter 6 gets posted 2nd January*.

Anyway, here's Chapter 6. Finale to the Parrenthorn battle trilogy.

As always, feel free to review this slowly developing story, and i'll be back... maybe before summer... or next Christmas...

Happy New Year!

-Jothesniper02


	7. Chapter 7

**Panzerfahren** **Chronicles Chapter 7:**

 **Aftermath**

A gentle breeze swayed the trees around the village of Landican. On the brown dirt path leading away from the settlement, was a small lake no bigger than twenty foot across. Sitting on an embankment, unmoved by the wind and autumn sun, was James. His knees were tucked in toward his chest as he stared at the still, flat murky water before him. His mind drifted, thinking back to the match, their victory, and their loss. A week had passed since the Parrenthorn match, and thankfully they had been given the week off upon their arrival back to the Wirral by the Headteacher and Mr Stead; both had been watching the battle unfold on _Tankery Today!_

Behind James emitted the sound of footsteps coming down the path. He didn't bother to look, most probably another dog walker, he reasoned. This was until he felt the wind of someone passing by right up against the back of his neck; it was then that he turned around. A figure was stood behind him, no taller than he was fully-standing. James recognised who it was in a heartbeat.

"Hey, Elise," James mumbled.

"Hi." She replied, sitting beside her friend. "How are you doing?"

"Alright, I suppose." He answered, still staring out on the lake. "You?"

"Yeah... I'm alright. It's you I'm worried about, to be honest." She said, giving James a nudge with her elbow. He moved his head slightly in her direction, however, the lake still snatched his gaze, as he took note of her words. "We all are. You haven't been answering out messages, hell you haven't even been doing you snapchat streaks anymore."

James was silent for a few moments before speaking, thinking carefully about what to say. "I'm fine... it's just..." He paused, thinking more, "it's just that, we've had someone on the brink of death in the first game of the year, Elise. If that isn't foreshadowing, then I don't know what is. Everyone's morale is low, in fact, I'd even say low is a vast understatement. Besides that, the weight of our success is on my shoulders now. Everything is my responsibility now, for god's sake."

"You do remember you volunteered to be the temporary commander during the match, right?" Elise responded, her reply coming off as slightly snotty. James scoffed.

"Damn it, I know." He snapped, "I volunteered because I knew having either Harry or Liam as the commander would tear the team apart. It would be divided straight down the middle. I just... didn't want that to happen. A better question to ask is how the hell did you find me here?"

Elise held her phone up, with the Snapchat App open on the screen. On it, was an animated figure, showing where James' figure was. "snapmaps." She explained. James huffed.

"Swear I turned it off." He said to himself. James took a breath, taking his time to release it. "Sorry, I... I just needed to get that out."

Elise looked at him and smiled faintly. She knew James would be prone to outbursts of frustration, thanks to a hasty message from Kieran and Josh prior to her finding him. They knew him better than she did. "It's alright," she said. "They might be pulling us out of the tournament this year, y'know." James' head shot up and he faced her in a blink of an eye.

"What?! Why?" He asked, his face morphing into a face of shocked disgust. Elise shrugged her shoulders.

"The Head might be pulling us out of the tournament after Casey's injury. He reasons if we stay in, it'll lead to more injuries just like it." She said. James was furious.

"If they think they can pry me away from the 'Good-Luck', or Panzerfahren as a whole for that matter, for even one second then they are sorely, mistaken!" He hollered. James quickly returned his gaze to the lake and took a deep, long breath; in some desperate attempt to calm down.

A silence followed. Only the trees moved and the autumn birds sang their songs. In the distance, the shallow Fender Valley lay, and the towns of Prenton, Oxton and the Woodchurch Estate. "D'ya know the crew and I have all agreed to come back here when we finish our GCSEs?" James recalled. He nodded to the far side of the lake. "Over there, we've stored all kinds of goodies: booze, sweets, you name it. We used to come here when we were younger. Early 2013, I think. We'd mess around, build dens, hell we even found an old Matilda a farmer was using; god knows what for. So, in Year 8, we each made a pact to come back here when we're done with the school and just have the time of our lives." He paused for a moment, before continuing. "It was only August that we put the booze in, it should still be there." James sniggered, "Who knows, maybe if we pull a miracle this year, we might be able to dig in sooner."

Another fragment of silence followed this time it was Elise who broke it.

"Should we check it's still there?" She asked, curiously. James smiled.

"Sure, why the hell not?" He answered, getting up from where he sat and began to move toward the far side of the lake, with Elise hot on his heels. Once they were around the lake, James ducked down into a hut made from wicker branches and leaves and rummaged around for a few seconds. Elise looked back out across the lake to where they had just been sat.

"They sure were good at building dens," Elise said to herself. James' head popped out from around the corner,

"Did you say something?" He asked.

Elise spun back around, "Nothing." She replied. "Is it still there?" James emerged from the hut, wielding a bottle of unopened vodka.

"Yeah, it's all still there." He said, gesturing the bottle to Elise. "Considering they aren't here I'm sure they won't notice if we have some now." She took the offered bottle in her hand and unscrewed the cap.

"And I'm sure they won't mind, considering the circumstances." She said, bringing the open lid to her lips. She took a large swig of the alcohol, before levelling the bottle and handing it back to James. Her face contorted into one of disgust before she swallowed the vodka. "Jesus, that's disgusting." She exclaimed. James laughed,

"I know, we didn't choose them on flavour." He raised the bottle above his head and smiled grimly while looking at Elise. "To Casey." He said, before taking a swig. His face contorting into a similar one of disgust as Elise's.

"Aye," she said, "to Casey."

* * *

The dreaded and severe case of the Mondays had stuck the Woodchurch team when their week of allowed absence ended. Through the standard routine, they persisted: Maths, English, Break, Science, History, Lunch, Engineering, Panzerfahren, Home. The routine of repetition had long been cemented in the heads of the students at Woodchurch. To James, and the rest of the crew, this was beyond the point of boring. Perhaps the only bonus of the day was their lunchtime club: Thunks.

It was a closely guarded secret within the select few who knew about its existence. The top-secret club was run by one of the Religious Studies teachers, who would play movies on her classroom's board, under the guise that they were philosophical in nature, and it was helping those who attended the club with their Humanities studies. The 'Official' cover worked, the Headteacher was unaware of the true nature of the club: which was a place for people to chill out, have lunch in peace and quiet, away from the hordes of students which would clutter the hallways during the lunch period, and watch a movie decided upon by common vote. For the past few weeks, before the Parrenthorn match, they had been halfway through the second series of a Netflix show, before the events of the match sent everything into chaos.

Thunks currently was merely a place to chill out and talk; making it no different from anywhere else in the school, the only difference being you wouldn't be evicted by the teachers by having food in the computer areas around the school.

By the time James had fetched his lunch from the packed canteen, the room was full of the usual residents of thunks, each busying themselves with either card games or conversations. Josh, Kieran, George, and Dan had all beaten him there and had tucked into their lunches themselves.

"Hey, guys," James said as he pulled out a chair.

"Hiya, mate." they all said in crude unison, still more focused on their lunches than James joining them at the table.

"Any word from the higher-ups, commander?" Josh's question, both half-genuine and half-sarcasm went unanswered for a few seconds while James took a gulp from his water. He shot Josh a death glare.

"Don't call me Commander." He said, "and no. There's no telling on whether we're pulling out of the tournament this year because of what happened. Not yet anyway." The question had caused everyone's ears to pike up. It seemed as though the whole year was on hold now that the Panzerfahren team's chance hung in the balance.

"What?" Josh said, sniggering, "You said it yourself. This is commander James Byrne." He said mockingly.

"Yeah, I was asserting my position as the head of command," James replied.

"Sure, sure."

"I hope to god it doesn't," Kieran said, butting in to defuse the brewing conflict. He placed his phone down on the desk and looked around him. "It's the only fun subject in this bloody school, and if they call it off this year there's gonna be outrage." The crew agreed. George spoke up,

"I just hope this isn't the la-"

" _CAN ALL YEAR 10 STUDENTS MAKE THEIR WAY TO THE ASSEMBLY HALL, PLEASE. THAT'S ALL YEAR 10 STUDENTS TO THE ASSEMBLY HALL PLEASE, THANK YOU."_

"Christ," George said, as the deafening cry of the tannoy sounded out in the room, "Miss? Is there any way you can turn that down?" He asked the teacher. She frowned.

"Afraid not, George, just my luck I get the room with the loudest tannoy speakers, eh?" She said, jokingly. James banged his fist on the desk twice.

"C' mon, lads. It said year 10, so we'd better get going." He said, practically throwing himself out from his chair, slung his bag over his back and marched out of the door. The crew, soon after, forced themselves out of their seats and followed James through the mob of students which packed the corridor from wall to wall. Thankfully, the assembly hall was only a few seconds walk from the classroom, so they needn't mingle with the rest of the school for long.

Inside the hall, the seating stand had been erected and the headteacher's podium set up in the centre of the hall floor. Nobody had populated the stands yet, which meant first dibs on seats; which they all agreed on, seemingly telepathically, the top row: the seats everyone would fight tooth and nail for.

Soon, after the lads had settled into their seats, and the rest of the year had been filed in by the teachers, the Headteacher, accompanied by Mr Stead and the other deputy-Headteachers. Each one of them, however, well they tried to hide it, had the face of despair and sorrow.

"Maybe we're gonna find out about what's happening with Panzerfahren," Dan said, hope lacing his voice. James glanced over, a mix of hope and dread on his own face.

"Hello Year 10," The Headteacher said, "as many of you know, there was an incident regarding one of our students during the first Panzerfahren match our school took part in this year. Since then we have been in contact with the Parents and Arrowe Park Hospital to send our wishes and prayers to the family, and that he will make a full recovery. It is with tremendous regret... that the Hospital phoned in just an hour ago... and that Casey Jones... has passed away."

"What?!" James said aloud. The hall erupted in a choir of chatter and audible anguish. He looked beside him, the lads were in equal amounts of shock. Their mouths hung open, unable to close after hearing the dreaded words. Five rows ahead of them, a girl burst into uncontrollable tears, and her screams of dashed hopes echoed like a banshee throughout the hall. James felt a sharp chill travel up his spine, like a knife along his bones.

"All of us were touched, in one way or another... by Casey in his time here. He was someone who we all aspired to be like." He said, finishing the announcement. His head sunk to his chest. "I will now hand you over to Mr Stead, thank you." The Headteacher manoeuvred away from the podium and took his seat, while Mr Stead, still in his physical education uniform, adopted the Head's prior position. He made no effort to hide the pain in his face.

"Thank you, sir." He said, quietly. Mr Stead turned to face the students, "Good afternoon, Year 10." He paused, looking through the seating stands. The faces which stared back were each overflowing with tremendous sorrow, and, in some, guilt. James, in particular, had his head in his hands. "As you've just heard, we have been unfortunately been bestowed the bleakest of news today. In fact, to say that is a vast and terrible understatement. But, one thing I have heard today is the rumours about what we're doing regarding the Panzerfahren tournament; as many of you have asked myself and other members of the senior leadership team. The rumours persist about the school removing itself from the Panzerfahren league this year."

James' head raised slowly. The other boys all looked up too, a scene of watered-down desperate hope was painted on their faces.

"It took a while to come to a solid answer," Stead said, continuing, "but the Headteacher and I eventually have."

"Don't you dare call it off," James muttered so quietly, that a mouse would struggle to hear him.

"After a multitude of meetings, the Headteacher and I have decided that we will continue the Panzerfahren tournament as planned. Furthermore, we will also continue the tournament with the prior temporary commander, and promote them to permanent commander until the end of the year."

The hall remained silent. But beneath the deafening silence, relief was felt amongst the students. Their sport and chance of winning this year were safe. James, though a great wave of relief had swept over him, he still felt unhappy. Aside from the news of Casey's passing, he was now stuck in a position he did not want permanently fixed to his name. The weight of the team, their thoughts and fears, their strong points and shortcomings, were all upon his shoulders now, and it was up to him what happened next.

* * *

 ** _One Week Later_**

The Panzerfahren clubroom was packed to the brim, yet nobody spoke. All eyes were fixated on James, who was stood, pacing, where Casey's chair once was. James turned, facing the team which had gathered before him. "So, what are our numbers?" He asked. Elise spoke,

"We have thirty-two tanks ready to go, with another four in reserve. Out of that, the bulk of the force is Sherman tanks of different variants, mainly A2s and A1s, with the occasional 76mm armed one or two. Not to mention the Grizzly and Jumbo we got at Tankfest."

"Don't forget four of them are Firefly's," Harry said, speaking up. Elise paused but continued.

"The remaining tanks include seven Cromwells, a Centaur (which is missing its engine), two Churchills, one a Mk VII the other a Crocodile, three Matilda IIs, a Comet, and three Stuarts. The only problem is we haven't got the numbers to crew the lot." James nodded,

"Hm," he thought, "our next match isn't for some time after Casey, so we could perhaps get our numbers up then. What about the aircraft?" James asked. Jess spoke up.

"Well aside from Blue Squadron's Spitfire and Hurricanes, there's the old P-51 at Hooton park and those two new Tempests; but they don't have any ammunition aside from the RP-3s which we can strap on."

"We'll ration the cannon ammo between the Spitfires and the Tempests, Jess." James said in return, "At least until we get another shipment of equipment for the teams; and let's just focus on what we have before we restore that P-51. Same goes for the tanks we have got the upgrade packages for, we do them one at a time so our whole fleet isn't out of action."

Jess thought of objecting to the ammunition ration. The 20mm cannons on her Mk. V was what did the most damage in both air-to-air, and air-to-ground combat. Yet still, she had four .303 machine guns as well as several dumb fire rockets should she wish to equip them. But the second thought in her head was the added ground attack capabilities with the addition of the Tempests: they could carry more, and go faster than the Hurricanes already in Blue Squadron, making more of a blessing than a curse.

"As for what could be upgraded first, I have yet to think," James stated, looking around the room. "Any suggestions?" He asked. Liam spoke up,

"I'd say we work on some of the Shermans, as well as perhaps a few Stuarts. The M5 gun is powerful, but obviously not enough to deal with Tigers, Panthers, Stalin's and Pershing. The Stuarts are designed for reconnaissance, so they obviously aren't meant to engage hostiles head on. But perhaps if we stuck a Littlejohn adapter on the barrels then they could engage heavier targets in shoot n' scoot tactics?" Jeremy nodded his head in agreement.

"It would greatly assist us when we come under fire by heavy units." He said. James's mouth twitched in a prelude to his agreement before he was cut off.

"How about the Matildas?" Emily said from her corner. "They are slow, sure, but they're heavily armoured and have the potential for conversion into artillery." James' attention was snatched.

"Artillery? How?" He asked. Emily continued,

"The Australian's used old Matilda's in the Pacific. They attached Hedgehog Anti-Submarine mines to the rear of the engine-deck and made it so the angle could adjust for ranged attacks. Albeit we aren't hunting U-Boats in Panzerfahren, it may still have a purpose for covering fire or to distract any hostile tanks."

James' left eyebrow raised in interest. His mind was made up. The Littlejohn adapters bought from Tankfest came with a conversion package to either 2 Pounder 40mm Shells or the 37mm M5, and it wouldn't take much effort to construct and fit the upgrades to the Matildas in question.

"My money is on the Matilda Arty, for sure." Elise disclosed. "It should bring a new way of how we can fight during matches." Nearly all the room agreed. Albeit Liam still preferred the idea of upgrading the Stuarts, he stayed quiet.

"Alright, Em." James announced, "we'll put the Matildas in for the upgrades first. As for the crew, perhaps we can get a few Year Sevens to get them running once the upgrades are complete. Is there anything else anybody wants to bring up?"

The room was quiet for just a few seconds before someone spoke.

"I heard Libby Daniels shagged a lad in a bush the other day!" Lewis, a tank engineer, exclaimed from the back. The clubroom flared with a few whispered sniggers and turned heads.

"What? When?" James asked as he smiled in amusement, and his child-like curiosity getting the better of him for a second before he switched back to addressing the room. "Alright, Lewis, that's enough. Anyway, one last thing: our next match is fuck knows when at this point, but we know who we'll be against, and you'll be gutted to know it won't be Ridgeway you'll be tearing chunks out of."

The teenagers all laughed to one another. Their matches against Ridgeway in the past had always been an easy victory. Even first years on their very first match scored more kills than any other when they went up against them.

"Instead, our opponent is a school which might provide somewhat of a familiar challenge: Wirral Grammar. As you know, their tanks are predominately German: Panthers and early Tigers to name a few, so it will be 100% harder than Parrenthorn. We know what they are like, especially the more senior of us: they are vicious when they find you, so expect a tough fight ahead. In preparation of this, I've put forward a request for some APCR and Sabot ammo to the Headteacher, which he has granted us. As for when we get it, I can only hope it's before the match." Silently, the room approved. James continued,

"There's only one last thing. Casey's funeral is in three days' time, and the hearse is set to pass the school. Therefore, we will be lining the road as it passes. If you don't wish to take part, then just tell me and I'll pass it on to Mr Stead. That's all."

As if perfectly on cue, the bell rang, beckoning the end of the meeting and the school day. The room swiftly became full of movement as the teenagers all threw their bags over their backs and made their way toward the door. James, however, stood firmly where he was; albeit he slung his bag on as well.

"Elise," James said, as the crowd was leaving the room. Elise turned and faced James, manoeuvring herself so the other students could pass around her. "Wait a sec, will you?"

Elise smiled faintly, "Sure," She said, "what do you need?"

James began to walk toward her, his right hand moving into his trouser pocket. "There's just one thing I need to ask you." James started,

"Since I'm now the Team Commander, one thing I will need is someone to cover my six." He stated, "My lads can't do it, I mean, I would choose them in a heartbeat if I could. But, if I did and we get hit and knocked out of the match, then the team is leaderless, and I could just put it to vote like how I was chosen... But I'm not going to." He paused, looking down towards his hand, which he had retrieved out of his pocket with a badge hidden in his fist. Elise had almost begun to switch on to where James was going with this, yet she looked at him quizzically.

"Elise Walton. I hereby name you as my Second-in-Command." James said, extending the hand out toward the girl opposite him, revealing the badge which was previously within his grasp. It was in the rough shape of a tank, with the number Two in its centre; much alike to James' own badge, the only difference being his was golden and engraved with the number One. The badge James held out to her was made out of a silver metal, which glistened in the light of the room. Elise was dumbfounded. Her face contorted into a look of astounded confusion.

"W-why me?" She asked, looking at the badge James had offered her. It took a few moments for James to think of what to say next. Initially, he thought Elise would accept it on the spot. Alas, he was mistaken.

"Well, for starters you proved yourself in last year's tournament. If it weren't for you, I probably would've died when that Barnstable King Tiger rammed _'Good-Luck'_ on the bridge a few years back _._ Aside from that, you're the smartest person I know, and someone I trust with my life if it came down to it. You've got a mind that is perfect for this, Elise." James paused for a moment, letting his words sink in. He unfastened the pin on the badge and stuck it to Elise's blazer collar. "You are someone who has potential; a huge amount of it, it would just be a shame to let it go to waste."

Elise looked down at the ground, before looking directly at James.

"I... I don't know what to say." Elise exclaimed, admiring the badge upon her uniform for a few seconds before looking back at James. She had to admit; the look of the badge suited her.

"Well, I want you to say yeah." He replied, "But if you don't wanna do it then I understa-"

"No... no... I'll do it" Elise said abruptly, "Bout time I stretch out into new waters anyway." Moments passed until James smiled slightly, recognising what she had said. Before James could speak next, Elise swung her arms around him, embracing James in a hug, the likes of which he had not experienced from her before. He was simply taken aback by the hug; she had always been an introvert, and although the two had a history together, she was always shyer and more sheepish than he; so, the simple thought of a hug from her was unprecedented. Nonetheless, James accepted her hug ambush (after the initial microsecond of shock had passed) and wrapped her arms around her also.

"Thank you." He said gently, after which Elise broke the hug and took a step back. She smiled calmly.

"Don't worry about it," Elise responded, before laying a playful punch on James' right shoulder. "C' mon, school's done for the day and I can't be bothered staying any longer."

James couldn't have agreed with her more.

* * *

Haha, bet you all thought I was dead! Surprise surprise, I am not.

Anyway, finally got Chapter 7 done, and there's actually little to no tank related stuff in this one; which is what I'll be focusing on for the few next chapters: Character development.

Anyway, I hope you enjoyed and I'll see you in the next one.

-Jothesnper02


	8. Chapter 8

**Panzerfahren Chronicles Chapter 8:**

 **Over the top**

"CHARGE! Forward men!" An officer screamed as a cascade of trench whistles echoes across the lines. Following shortly behind, the soldiers in the trench leapt from their relative safety and into the Frey. Each one of them screamed at the peak of their lungs as they charged toward the German positions. Behind them, the slow chug of Vickers Machine Guns rattled out, spewing hot lead across No Man's Land.

James sprinted forward across the distraught fields of St. Quentin. A medic red cross adorned his shoulder epilates, and a captured German semi-automatic rifle lay in his use. On his flank, Kieran, Josh, Dan and George followed; each one of them carrying a different weapon to the other. Kieran and Dan had both stuck with SMLE Rifles (Although Kieran had modified his with a medium range optic), George had a standard Lewis Gun, and Josh went with a Model 10 Trench Gun; fitted with a bayonet, as though the concept of a shotgun wasn't scary enough. The only thing similar about them, were their uniforms.

In front of them, a German soldier dared to move. James had barely noticed him as the soldier brought his rifle to bear; and a loud crack and whizz of a bullet shot past James' head. In return, James did what he always did, and unloaded two rounds from his rifle into the man's chest. The soldier slumped backward and fell backwards into the mud. Then another soldier emerged. And another. And another. Soon, it appeared like the whole world was stood against them; but that didn't stop them.

George threw himself to the ground and pulled the trigger of his Lewis Gun. Immediately, the hostile troops ducked into cover, buying the rest of them time. The rest of them ran forward, careful not to catch a bullet from either the Germans or the Lewis gun, and hurled themselves into a half-flooded shell hole. Kieran was the first to speak.

"You lot go around them, I'll pop them off if they show their heads again." The sniper said, as he turned his back on the three-remaining few and crawled toward the crest of the hole. "Make sure you get the objective sorted, lads." Kieran placed his eye to the rear of the scope. The smudged and muddy sight was, at first, believed to be clotted with muck, however after he manoeuvred his head slightly, he found the crosshairs.

And it was right over one of the Kraut's heads.

Kieran eased off the trigger gently. Inevitably, the rifle obeyed the trigger pull, and shot out a round, slamming itself into the skull of the soldier on the receiving end. His helmet flew into the air, as a clang of lead punching through tin rang out.

This was the signal. Josh threw a smoke grenade over the crest of the shell-hole as they prepared to move. And when they heard the dull thud of the smoke discharging, they charged toward the enemy before them. Each screamed at the top of their lungs or even more so. Through the smoke, they ran into the jaws of hell.

Before the three, were only two remaining Germans. One was attempting to flee into a bombed-out windmill, while the other looked at them with daggers in his eyes, and a devilish smile on his lips. In his hands, was something which resembled not any firearm the lads had seen before, yet in a split second, James realised what it was.

A detonation handle.

"Shit! Get down!" he screamed, as he threw himself onto the ground. Although his warning appeared to fall on deaf ears. Milliseconds later, the ground erupted in fire and fury. Josh was blown sky high; his shotgun having been left to fall to the ground ownerless, while Dan had been obliterated by the blast.

James moaned in agony, although not for the loss of his friends; something sharp had lodged itself in his left leg. But before he could tend to that, there was that Kraut to deal with. The German in question, had ditched the detonator, and reached for his Luger P08 pistol. James' body was screaming with adrenaline, to which he could only obey. For a moment, he felt nothing. Like the pain and suffering was all gone in that instant. The battlefield around him turned to muffled silence. Only one thing filled his heart now. Rage. The sights of the captured rifle found their target, and with several pulls of the trigger, the man before him was dead.

Even James didn't know how many rounds he had loosed into that man. _7? Maybe 6?_ He thought. His rhetorical questions of his ammunition spending were cut short, as the pain of the wound returned to his leg. Rapidly, James materialised a bandage from a satchel around his shoulder, and wrapped his leg in the cloth. Soon after, the bleeding stopped, the pain subsided and James continued his advance into the valley ahead.

 _Clunk!_

The world around him turned to red, the sounds of the battle were shifted to mere muffled noise, and his helmet went flying, free from his head, and with an extra pair of holes from where the bullet had made its mark.

"Shit!" James cursed, as he threw off his headset. He fell backwards into his seat, and looked up to the screen only to see it zoomed in on a prone figure several hundreds of yards away. The battle still sung through the headphones into the comparatively quiet room, although now they were making more of a muffled noise rather than a First World War battlefield.

He sighed, as he looked around the room. The sky-blue paint which plastered his walls was obscured by the many posters he had hung up. Opposite from where he was sitting, was one different from the rest. On it, was the ' _Good-Luck',_ although before she was christened as such,the crew, and himself after their first match with the ancient Sherman tank, way back in their second year of Woodchurch.

James smirked. Josh still had a bowl cut, and his front two teeth stuck out from his smile. Kieran was sitting on the frontal plate with a smug grin. Dan and George were both stood on the turret, and were posing up a storm. James, was just stood leaning on the tank's side plates with a smile of his own. He missed when the biggest problems they had was only overdue homework.

The wave of mourning had passed since Casey's funeral the prior day. The Headmaster, Mr. Stead along with the Panzerfahren Team had all been invited personally. The funeral, however, had a huge turnout. Since the news of Casey's passing had made National News, representatives from Panzerfahren Schools across the U.K. had all turned up to pay their respects.

Now, the match against Wirral Grammar was only a few days away, and although James, Elise and the crew had been doing the very best they could to get the team to have a fighting chance to come on top of the next match, James was still perturbed with what the outcome could be. He had faith that the team would try to the utmost of their strength, but whether that would be enough plagued his mind severely. He went over the team's strength in is head while he waited for a respawn.

Of course, there was the usual line up of Shermans and Cromwells, that wasn't changing. The Jumbo had been designated as a reserve tank, while the Comet was operational but crewless. The Grizzly had managed to be crewed, by first years, so James wasn't expecting too much from them. Furthermore, only two Matildas had been upgraded to the Hedgehog specifications, and, due to the regulations on artillery, could only be armed with smoke dispensers instead of mortars. The crews didn't mind, much to James' relief, and had decided to christen the pair as _'Hedgehog'_ and _'Badger'_.

The Kriegsfleiger team were due to test a restored Mustang the following day, along with the new duo of Tempests joining Blue Squadron. They were on their last batch of RP-3 Rockets and 20mm Hispano ammunition, but not .50 Cal or .303 British. Jessica had ensured that each tank crew hand over at least a case, or two, of ammunition for the aircraft machine guns. As a result, the Mustang would be the only one in the next match starting with a full ammo count. Jessica had since messaged James that their team would be fielding one less Hurricane, to let the Mustang take its place.

As much as James wanted to ponder over the situation before him, a more pressing matter showed itself. His timer for a respawn had ran out, and now he was back in the fight. As he loaded in, rifle in hand, he charged into the depths of a near forgotten hell.


End file.
